Long Dark Night
by Atiaran
Summary: Gabrielle and Caesar come to a parting of the ways. The conclusion to my series of GabrielleCaesar fics. AU. Not romance.
1. Chapter 1

**Standard disclaimer:** None of the characters, places, etc. in this story are mine, but are instead the property of Universal Studios and Renaissance Pictures. No copyright infringement is intended by their use in this story.

**Author's notes:** Well, this is it; this is the last in the "Destiny" series of AU Gabrielle/Caesar fics. After this, I might write a prequel, but this is as far as I'm planning on taking this series. This story here is the payoff story in terms of Gabrielle's and Caesar's character development; everything previous to this has been leading up to it. Some reviewer said of "Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith," that "The sheer force of the director's vision triumphed over his inadequacies as a filmmaker." I hope that's true here, and most of all, I hope it isn't a disappointment.

The stanza quoted below is from Rudyard Kipling's charming, romantic poem "The Vampire." For added fun, those of you playing the home game can attempt to figure out who is the Fool and who is the Lady in this AU/story series. Not really a "right/wrong" answer per se (although I of course have my ideas); more a sort of lens through which to look at this series. Oh, and watch for Callisto: I've saved the best for last. 

As always, thanks to LadyKate who helped beta!

* * *

"_So the Fool was stripped to his foolish hide,_

_(Even as you and I!)_

_Which she might have seen when she threw him aside_

_(But it isn't on record the Lady tried)_

_So some of him lived and the most of him died_

_(Even as you and I!)_

_And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame_

_That stings like a white-hot brand._

_It's coming to know that she never knew why_

_(Seeing at last she could never know why)_

_And did not understand."_

—Rudyard Kipling, "The Vampire"

* * *

It had been a week or so since they had left the ruins of that bard's home village, and his legs were still swollen and throbbing. The bard—_Gabrielle_—had relented enough to allow him to ride Argo, though she now walked, leading the horse, instead of riding double with him. She had barely spoken to him, barely acknowledged his existence in any way. She had also more or less stopped feeding him; she no longer shared out the food she carried in the saddlebags, providing him only with a few scraps tossed him from her own meals. It didn't matter; he wasn't hungry anyway. Sometimes he caught her staring at him, and in those moments he saw real hatred in her face.

She was angry. Not just at him, but at everything. A sort of dreamlike clarity had fallen over his thoughts since their encounter with the Crusader, and in this clarity it seemed he could see more deeply and more truly into things than he had ever seen in his life. She was hurting, and she was angry, and she was unsure, and she was afraid—as well she might be, if what her family had said was true and Callisto was hunting her—and he was a convenient target. He was accustomed to this; he had served the same function for Xena often enough, though Gabrielle was certainly no Xena. What he had said to her in the stables probably hadn't helped, but it was of no consequence. He had been glad to see someone else suffering for once, someone else's plans and dreams fall into dust.

She was going to abandon him. She might not know it yet, but he could see it coming, with that same distant clarity; he had severed whatever tie lay between them. He could see it in her white silence, in the angry looks she gave him, in the way she stood coldly watching as he struggled to mount Argo in the mornings. She was going to abandon him, and he wondered briefly and without much interest what he would do then. The idea of finding a quiet spot in the woods, simply lying down, and resting for a day, or three, or five, had a strange, seductive appeal. It didn't matter. It would happen when it happened, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He could see these things clearly, but they did not seem important, somehow. They seemed very distant, as if they did not affect him, or as if they were things that would happen to someone else. At any rate, he saw nothing he could do to change them. He followed where she led, stopped when she stopped, slept where she slept and woke when she did, waiting for the day when she would simply ride off without him; his mind was taken up with other things. With Xena.

He had had a dream about her the night after they had left Potedaia, when his legs had hurt so badly it had been difficult for him to sleep. When he had finally managed it, he had dreamed of a game Xena had played occasionally, mostly during the first year of his captivity. Like most of her games, it had been painful; she would run a chain from the manacles on his wrists to her saddle horn. _Don't be afraid, slave, _she'd said with a small, mocking smile, looking down at him from horseback. _No harm will come to you….as long as you keep up, that is. So run, slave. Run very fast._

He'd run. He had no choice; it was run or be dragged. He ran after her horse as best he could on his twisted, misshapen legs, staggering and stumbling over rough and uneven ground. His legs had been agony, pain lancing as far as his hips with every step, and he hadn't even tried to bite back the cries each time he fell to his knees. He'd run, each step hell, until he fell and could not recover; and then he'd been dragged behind her, his shoulders feeling as if they were being wrenched from their sockets, trying to protect his face with his arms as stones and pebbles and branches scraped and tore at his ragged clothes and skin. Eventually, she tired of the game and drew her horse to a halt; she dismounted and came to where he lay, bleeding and battered and broken behind her, without the strength even to lift his head. She prodded him with a foot, then turned him over and knelt beside him; her hand had touched his forehead in a gentle, almost caring gesture. _Not bad, slave,_ she'd said, smiling, only as he looked up at her, with the sun behind her, it was not her face he saw in the dream; it was the face of that blonde bard. _Not good enough, but not bad._

That had been a strange dream. He wondered distantly what it meant.

It hadn't always been like that. As he thought it over, it seemed to him that Xena had been angriest, cruelest, during that first year. She was always capricious, of course, quick to lash out on a whim or from spite or for no reason at all. But after the first year, the hate that she bore him seemed to die down a bit; he had begun to see other sides of her as well. He'd seen her fierce and triumphant in the aftermath of battle; she would send for him, and go on until he was simply physically incapable of more, almost too exhausted to move, and then mock him for being unable to match her. He'd seen her pain the day they received word that Callisto the Fiery had destroyed Amphipolis and had her mother burned to death—she'd listened to the messenger with not a flicker of emotion on her icy features, but when she had summoned him that night she had been extremely drunk; had forced him to drink with her, and wept, and raged, and threatened to kill him or herself or both. It had taken all the cunning he possessed to dissuade her. She could be surprisingly gentle and tender when the mood was on her: ardent and possessive certainly, yet at the same time warm, teasing and playful; she would sometimes kiss him lightly as he lay in her arms afterward, and stroke his hair. Once she had called him beautiful. He knew her. He _knew_ her, in all her moods; there was no one who knew her better.

Najara's _djinn_ had told him that surrendering would have changed nothing. In fact, he'd already known it for truth, and wondered vaguely that he could have ever doubted; he knew Xena well enough to know that the Dark Conqueror would not have spared Rome, even if he had given himself up to her. It was as he had told the bard three weeks ago, in the caverns where they had been captured: she would have gone even further than she had if it were possible, just so that she could have had the pleasure of crushing his hopes. He'd seen her do similar things many times over the course of his captivity. Surrendering would not have made the slightest bit of difference in the final outcome.

_Does that mean the destruction of Rome was inevitable?_

He didn't know. That was the question at which his mind worked dimly, as he sat on Argo's back and let the bard lead them to wherever she thought she was going; as he waited by the campfire at night for her to toss him whatever scraps of food she felt like giving him. Was there anything he possibly could have done to avert it? Though he could _see_ clearly, his thoughts were distant, vague; it felt as if his mind had been blunted, somehow. Thinking of the question tired him; it was much easier to simply lose himself in memory. Nevertheless, he worked at it as best he could, trying to wrench at it, to force a conclusion through the dullness that permeated his mind. It was no use. His thoughts kept going in circles, and he did not see an answer. He followed where Gabrielle led, waiting dimly for the day when she would abandon him, and thought of Rome, and Xena.

* * *

Gabrielle didn't know where she was going. She led them down side paths, backwoods trails, paths that she'd known from her childhood, trying to keep off the main roads as much as she could; her parents had said Callisto was hunting her, and she couldn't be too careful. Her parents had thrown her out. Athens was burned. She didn't know where to go. 

She remembered that Najara had offered to let her stay with her army, and to give her a place among the healers. Joining the Crusader seemed like a very good option—much better than wandering aimlessly throughout the hills around Potedaia until Callisto found her; with Najara's army she would be safe and protected, and since Callisto was already at war with Najara, She of the _Djinn_ would not be like to kick her out simply because the Bright Warrior was after her. But Gabrielle didn't even know if she could _find_ Najara's army again; she doubted that the Crusader would still be camped around the village of Laurel after this time, and anyway she didn't know how to get to Laurel except on the main highways, where Callisto's men would be most likely to find her. So she wandered, staying off the main roads, diving into the bushes at the slightest sound of anyone coming, always cold, always tired, always afraid.

Caesar might have had some ideas if she had asked him. She doubted it though. Since Laurel, he had been broken, lost, shattered; unable to make basic decisions on his own. And even if he hadn't, even if he had been whole…

_Hurts, doesn't it._

The memory of the cold malice in his dark eyes—the mean pleasure he had taken in her pain—was always with her. It burned in her, even worse than the pain of her parents' rejection. She tried hard not to think about it, because whenever she did, that slow, deliberate rage would come curling, coiling back into her, spreading through her chest and heart, reaching its tendrils through all her limbs; she would find herself breathing hard, burning with fury aimed directly at him, her hands aching for the belt knife or the hatchet. The rage took all her strength to push back down, and when she at last succeeded she felt drained, physically wrung out from the struggle. More and more, she found herself wondering why she even bothered. He had been angling to get killed since the day the chains had come off; she'd really be doing him a favor. And it certainly wasn't like there was anyone who would miss him if he were gone….

When she found herself thinking things like that, she would take her hatchet and go into the woods, and chop wood for the campfire until she had worn herself out. It worked—for now. She didn't know how much longer it would continue to work. If she didn't get away from him soon, something bad might end up happening. But she didn't know where she could leave him. If she dumped him by the side of the road and Callisto's men picked him up, she had no doubt that he would inform on her before half an hour had passed. _If he didn't seek Callisto's men out, just to turn me in for spite._

A temple of Gaia, perhaps, but she only knew of one in this area, and when they'd come on it in their wanderings, it had been deserted and in ruins. She'd thought the sisters had run off, until she had gone around back to look for a well and caught the scent, heard the buzzing of the flies. Those bodies had been there a while, lying with their dark robes and white hair stained a dull rust color from the gashes in their heads.

At first Gabrielle thought it had been Callisto's men who had done this; certainly they would have no respect for the sanctity of a temple. But then, Callisto's men tended to burn everything they could get their hands on, and the temple wasn't burned, merely ruined. Perhaps it had been the work of some cutthroat brigands; all the valuables—candlesticks, silver offering bowl, temple statues—had been carried off. If so, it was a reminder that even had Callisto's men moved on, they still weren't safe. There were other evils in the world besides Callisto. Gabrielle thought about leaving one of the trail loaves on the altar to Gaia anyway as an offering, but decided against it; she might need that food, and if anyone were to come by and see it, it would be a sure sign that someone had been there recently. It probably would not matter….but then again it might. Gabrielle wasn't about to take any chances.

_Besides, the gods are dead._

Najara had said that, and Gabrielle found herself in full agreement. So she left the altar barren, and turned back to the forest; she even did the best she could to erase the marks of Argo's hoofprints from the dirt of the courtyard with a leafy bough. She wasn't able to do a very good job, but perhaps it was better than nothing.

_This is the worst,_ she thought to herself, during the long sleepless nights, the days she spent wandering aimlessly through the backwoods trails, not knowing where she was going, not caring. Every hand was against her, every door shut in her face, her home in ruins, her family having turned their backs on her. _This is it. This is the worst that can happen. There is nothing that could happen to me that is worse than this._

She was, of course, wrong.

* * *

Making the fire had been her mistake. Gabrielle would see that later, after the damage had been done. Even at the time she had known better, but it had rained briefly the night before; her bedroll had been soaked, and she had been shivering with chill, so cold that it had overwhelmed her common sense. 

They had been huddling by the fire when Argo had raised her head and nickered, her ears swiveling. Gabrielle had instantly stilled and listened, and caught the tramp of marching feet, some way off, but heading closer. Moving with the speed of panic, she had spread earth over the fire, grabbed Argo's reins, and hauled her and Caesar into the undergrowth off the trail, backing them behind a thick screen of foliage and hoping it would be enough to hide them from whoever was coming. She parted the leaves slightly with her hands, just enough so that she could peer out and see the clearing. The tread of approaching soldiers was loud, but there was another sound accompanying it—a strange, rhythmic clanking sound, as of heavy metal. It didn't sound like armor. Gabrielle was still trying to figure out what it was when the marchers came into her line of sight.

It was slaves. A slave caravan.

A double file of them were trudging by, men and women of all ages, linked together by the neck and with their wrists bound by manacles. Clad in ragged clothing, their eyes empty, their faces exhausted, they marched leadenly in an endless procession across the clearing, looking as if their strength had long since failed. Gabrielle had never seen a slave caravan up close before, and even with all that had happened to her, she was still touched by the abject misery passing in front of her eyes. The slaves trudged on mechanically, goaded by the touch of a lash or the blow of a fist; mounted guards rode up and down the columns on either side, riding sturdy, well-kept horses, in armor and carrying swords and bows in addition to whips. Their equipment appeared to be more or less uniform, and Gabrielle wondered if they were all members of the same company. She searched their faces, trying to gain some insight into the kind of people who could inflict such cruelty so dispassionately, but found nothing. If anything, most of them looked bored, as if they had seen it all before and were just doing their jobs.

Then, as she watched, her heart rose into her throat as two guards broke off from the procession. They came to the spot on the ground where she had hastily thrown earth on the fire. It still smoldered, Gabrielle saw, though dimly; a thin stream of pale smoke rose colorlessly into the morning air.

_No,_ Gabrielle thought. _No, no, no…_

The guards dismounted. They looked at the ground; one of them bent down to touch the earth, and jerked his hand away, swearing at the heat. He straightened up again. The two men spoke together briefly. Gabrielle watched, trembling, cursing herself for ever making the fire in the first place—_I should have known better,_ she thought desperately, _I should have known better…._

Yes, and here it came; the two men had called a third guard over, and the one who had touched the campfire was pointing directly at the undergrowth where she lay hidden. She could see them clearly through the leaves. Her heart went cold within her. Softly as she could, she wound her hands around Argo's reins and started trying to back the horse deeper into the wood. Argo seemed to sense the need for stealth; she moved as quietly as a horse could. She touched Caesar's shoulder, gesturing for him to fall back with her, but he simply looked at her as if he did not understand what she was doing.

Gabrielle gestured again more fiercely—_come on!_—but he still did not move. That broken distance was in his eyes, and she wondered if he even knew what was going on…if he even cared. She heard the jingling and footfalls of men coming toward their place of concealment, and grabbed Caesar by the shoulder, trying to drag him back into the undergrowth, when all of a sudden the branches in front of them were whipped aside and Gabrielle found herself staring into the face of a squat, broad-shouldered, gap-toothed man.

"Well, look at what we've got here," he said, grinning. "Two little rabbits, flushed out of their nest. Come here, little rabbit," he taunted.

Gabrielle dropped Argo's reins and tried to turn, tried to flee back into the undergrowth, but it was no good; the man reached out and caught her by her hair. He yanked it so hard it felt half her scalp was coming off; blinded by tears of pain, she was dragged out onto the path. "Torax, look what we caught!" she heard him calling. "Can't get much for the man, but the girl ought to be worth a dinar or two in Ch'in, and there's a horse besides—" Rough laughter beat against her ears. Gabrielle twisted with the strength of panic and sank her teeth into her captor's wrist. The man gave a shout of pain. The pressure on her hair let up, but the very next instant a bright light exploded in her head as he slammed his fist into her jaw. She collapsed to the ground and felt a hard boot strike her midsection.

"_You little viper!"_ he snarled in outrage. Gabrielle tried to curl into a ball as blows rained down on her, too dizzy and disoriented to do anything else. "_I'll teach you to bite me—"_

"Now, now, now, Retares, stop it, stop it!" she heard a voice chide. "Is that any way to treat good merchandise?"

The blows stopped immediately, and Gabrielle heard the gravel crunch as the man who had been holding her dropped to one knee in a bow. No one was restraining her now; there was nothing to stop her from getting to her feet and running away—except for the fact that all her limbs felt as weak as water after the blow to the head; she wasn't even sure which way was up. She tried to raise her head, and through eyes swimming with tears, looked up at the scene around her.

The slave column had come to a halt at the back of the clearing. Caesar was to her right, she saw, being held by another man—probably Torax, she guessed; Argo was slightly beyond him with a third man holding the reins. Even through her haze of pain, Gabrielle was surprised to see that some of the lost look had drained out of Caesar's eyes; he seemed more alert than he had in a long while. He was not resisting the guards—which was just as well, because it would have been futile; in addition to his legs, they had taken his gladius so he was now completely unarmed—but neither did he give the impression of the strange absence which had hung around him for the past couple of weeks. He simply watched, taking in information; she saw his eyes move, scanning the clearing, and realized through her fog that he was recording everything he saw and storing it for possible future use.

"My lord," she heard the guard who had been holding her say, and heard the fear in his voice. Her eyes went to the man in front of her.

The man in front of her was seated on a pure white horse, a dainty mare that must have cost a pretty penny; the golden and jeweled trappings on her harness were probably worth as much again as she was. He was a rotund little man, dressed in rich silks and satins, and any one of the jewels on his fingers or around his neck would have bought all of Potedaia several times over. His hair was silver and thinning, and his neatly trimmed beard and mustache slightly darker; his face was genial and charming, and his brown eyes twinkled with good humor and warmth.

"My lord Salmoneus!" one of the other guards said. "Please—please, forgive us, we didn't mean any offense—"

_Salmoneus?_ Gabrielle stared at him through her blurry vision. This kind-looking figure was the sinister Slaver Lord? _There must be some mistake,_ she thought, unable to credit it.

Salmoneus folded his ringed hands and looked down at the guards where they knelt before him; he was shaking his head ruefully. "Retares, Torax, Polones—I'm surprised at you! Didn't we already go over this back at the beginning of the journey?" he scolded them.

"Of c-course, Lord Salmoneus—"

"We remember everything you told us, my lord—"

"We would never forget any of your words, my lord—"

The guards were practically stumbling over each other to apologize to him. Gabrielle couldn't see what on earth there was in this cheerful little figure to be afraid of; she had never seen anyone less intimidating in her life.

"Now, now, now, I know you wouldn't," he said reassuringly. "But just to be clear, let's go through this again. Is that all right?" He paused, and smiled, his eyes twinkling. "Slaves are profit; guards are expense," he said, spreading his hands. "Which do you think are more valuable?"

The guards were all silent. Gabrielle saw that Retares was sweating.

"Right!" Salmoneus said cheerfully, though nobody had said anything. "Now, let's put this another way: Which do you think I would prefer to lose"

Again, silence. Salmoneus waited, smiling pleasantly, running his eyes over the clearing. Her vision had mostly cleared; watching him, Gabrielle saw that there was something disconcerting about the way he looked at her and Caesar, but she couldn't quite tell what it was. After a moment of silence, the Slaver Lord continued.

"I only ask," he said, folding his hands in front of him, "because of the discussion we had when I hired you all. Remember that? What did I tell you are standard losses for most slavers on the journey to Ch'in?" he said with a genial smile. "Wasn't it about a fifth?"

"That sounds…about correct, my lord," Retares mumbled without raising his head.

"Imagine that. Most slavers lose a fifth of their caravans en route to Ch'in." He looked pained. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you what losses like those would do to my profit margins. Whew! Well, I'm telling you—I'm only a simple businessman trying to make a living. I can't afford that," he said ruefully. "The whole point of being a businessman is to learn to balance profit with expense. And what better way to cut expenditures than to turn an expense into a profit?"

He paused, watching them. They were silent, pale and sweating. "That _is_ the deal you agreed to, isn't it?" he asked them genially. "I told you going in: three times standard pay, but if a slave is killed, seriously injured or incapacitated by the actions of a guard, the guard takes their place in the line. I _told_ you that up front," he said, scolding slightly. "Slaves _are_ valuable property, after all, and I've got to make a return on my investment…." He spread his hands as if it were the most obvious thing in the world

He paused again, as if waiting for answer. Silence. She saw Retares swallow; Torax looked ill. Salmoneus watched them a moment longer, then clapped his hands briskly. "Anyway, you just keep on doing what you're doing," he said with a smile. "Just as long as I have a full caravan of slaves to put on the blocks when we get to Ch'in. That's all that really matters, and I'm sure I will, one way or another. Keep up the good work."

He had touched his heels to his horse and was about to move on when Retares asked, "My—My lord Salmoneus, what will you have us do with these two?"

Salmoneus turned back and ran his eyes over them again. Again Gabrielle saw that strange look in them; she couldn't say what it was, but something about it chilled her to the bone. "The girl ought to be worth quite a bit," he said pleasantly. "Not bad-looking and she's got that sturdy peasant build. Strong and healthy, and she looks like a hard worker; she'll make an excellent field hand or domestic laborer. Add her to the caravan."

"And the man?" The third man, Polones, had risen from his bow; now he gave Caesar a shove. Caesar staggered and almost fell; he turned his head and looked briefly over his shoulder at Polones. There was a hostility in those dark eyes that Gabrielle had thought not to see there again. Polones paid him no attention. "He'll never be able to work with those legs," the guard continued, "and the scars he's got say he's a runaway. He's worthless to us. Should we kill him straight out, my lord?" He was already drawing his sword to comply.

The Slaver Lord touched his heels to the side of his horse, and the dainty white mare trotted over to where Polones held Caesar. Salmoneus looked down at him from horseback.

"Let me look at him." Salmoneus reached down and gripped Caesar's wrist, squeezing it and forcing his hand to uncurl. Caesar watched him with narrow eyes. Looking down at his opened hand, Salmoneus ignored the former emperor completely. "These are the hands of an educated man," the Slaver Lord said thoughtfully. "Certainly not a nobleman, not with these scars, but perhaps a clerk or tutor. Can you read and write?" he asked, looking at Caesar for the first time.

Caesar's eyes narrowed further, and his mouth tightened. He didn't answer.

"Answer the Slaver Lord, filth!" Polones snarled, and struck him across the back of the head with his blade. Caesar lurched and almost fell again. Salmoneus did not let go of his wrist; his twinkling brown eyes were cool and distant.

"This one's got a bit of an attitude, doesn't he?" Salmoneus observed to Polones with a rueful shrug. Gabrielle, who could have told them volumes, kept silent. "Can you read and write?" Salmoneus asked again, speaking louder and more slowly. "What languages do you speak? Who was your previous owner?"

Again, Caesar was silent, glaring at Salmoneus with a hostility that Gabrielle had not seen from him in days.

Salmoneus looked at him for a moment longer, then shrugged and released him. "Stick him in the line. We might be able to sell him for a steward or pedagogue somewhere."

"His legs—"

"If he keeps up, he keeps up," Salmoneus said. "If he doesn't, we paid nothing for him, so we're out nothing. It's a can't-lose proposition, and those are always the best kind." He gave that jovial grin again. "Carry on," he said, and clucked to his horse. He was about to ride off when Gabrielle found her legs.

Breaking free of the man holding her, she called out, "Lord Salmoneus!"

Salmoneus stopped and looked back at her in amazement. He couldn't have looked more surprised than if one of the trees had suddenly started speaking to him. Retares tried to strike her, but Gabrielle ducked away. "Lord Salmoneus!" she cried again. "Please! I—I'm just a farmgirl—I've done nothing to you—_please,_ just let us go on our way, and—"

A blow to the back of the head cut her off and Gabrielle crumpled to the ground, biting her tongue in the process. As she blinked, trying to clear the tears out of her eyes, she heard Salmoneus say, "Whew, she certainly talks a lot, doesn't she?"

The other guards murmured assent.

Salmoneus looked down at her from horseback. "Tell you what. I have a standing offer from one of the Ch'in noble families for deaf-mute domestics. If she speaks again, cut out her tongue," he said matter-of-factly.

Gabrielle had been about to protest further, but those words from Salmoneus froze her in place. As he looked down at her now, Gabrielle could suddenly identify what it was about those merry brown eyes that chilled her so.

_She wasn't there._

She realized that in a flash that froze her heart. For him, _she wasn't there._ He didn't even see her at all. It was as if she didn't even exist, and he saw only a pile of dinars in her place; she was nothing more than something to be sold, like a jewel or a jar of oil or a vial of perfume. She had never experienced anything like it before, and she felt herself wilt inside.

"We will, Lord Salmoneus!" Retares asserted.

"Oh, good, so that's settled then," Salmoneus said. "Take the horse as well; that animal looks worth quite a bit. Carry on," he said again, and touched his heels to his horse, continuing off down the trail, whistling amiably to himself. As he rode on down the line, the guards closed in on them.


	2. Chapter 2

Looking back on it later, Gabrielle was never able to clearly remember the time she spent in Salmoneus's slaver caravan. There was merely a jumbled chaos of sights, sounds, feelings. A bowl of the bland, tasteless slop the guards distributed among the slaves for food; the snap of the whip, cracking against a slave's back; the cold, biting air in the mornings as they crossed over the mountains, so cold she could see her breath, could see frost forming on the manacles at her wrists; Caesar leaning heavily on her and cursing her steadily and viciously as they staggered together over the uneven trail. These impressions and a thousand others swam at her out of the vague, dreamlike haze that surrounded her, but they never came together into a whole. There were only two constants—two things that were always with her—that stood out clearly in her mind.

The first was the chains. They lay heavy on her neck and wrists, clinking at every movement. She had never been chained before, not even when she had been captured by Xena's men; she had been herded before the Dark Conqueror, with the other young girls in Athens, but she had not been chained. Now she was, and she _loathed_ it. They were always there. She could not forget about them for an instant; even should she manage it, they would intrude their way into her consciousness again when she felt their weight, heard their dismal clanking. Always reminding her of what she was: a slave.

The chains _hurt._ Caesar bore them easily enough—the thick, ugly scarring on his throat and wrists seemed to protect him from the irons' bite—but Gabrielle's tender flesh had no defense. She was raw and bleeding from them at the end of the first day, and her skin only grew more chafed and torn as the days went on. After a while, every movement hurt, and dried blood crusted around the edges of the shackles; the throbbing was so bad it kept her awake at night, when the guards allowed the slaves to drop off to sleep. If she had had rags, she would have wrapped them around the irons—she saw some of the slaves had done so—but she didn't. All she could do was suffer.

The second constant was the shame. Like the chains, the shame, was always with her. The shame of slavery, of having been so thoroughly depersonalized, reduced to nothing more than an object. She could see it in the eyes of the guards; they looked on the slaves as if they were no more than cattle or goats. She could see it in the eyes of the few villages they passed through—the first time the caravan had passed before the eyes of villagers at a rest stop, Gabrielle had wanted to curl up and die of humiliation. In the eyes of Salmoneus himself: whenever that jolly, cheerful little man would ride up and down his column of moving property, and his merry eyes fell on Gabrielle, she would see again that look, the one that said _she wasn't there_, that she was nothing more than a pile of dinars to him, with no worth or value other than that. Every time she saw that, she felt herself die a little more.

The words Tara had said in Najara's camp were in her thoughts: _Being a slave is the worst thing in the world. It kills you from the inside._ Now she knew exactly what Tara had meant. She knew, and wished to the gods who did not hear that she didn't. She tried to hope that maybe Najara would come and find her, set her free as she had Tara, but she couldn't make herself believe it. For all she knew, Najara was back in Africa by this time, and unless her _djinn_ had told her, there was no way for the Crusader to know that she had been taken as a slave, let alone where she was or who had her. She had no hope of escape.

Oddly enough, it was Caesar who kept her going during this time. Chained next to her in line, leaning heavily on her during the march, it was he who drove her onward, showering her with insults and abuse when she faltered. It was he who forced her to get up off the ground in the morning, he who made her continue on, step after painful, slow step on the march, he who demanded her attention when her mind started to wander in the face of the guards' orders and indifference. He hated her only slightly less than she hated him, of that she was sure. His motives for forcing her to go on were entirely selfish; he made no attempt to disguise them, and if he had, it would not have fooled Gabrielle for an instant, not after what he had said to her in the ruins of Potedaia. And yet, despite his utter self-absorption, if it were not for him, she might have simply succumbed to the despair and died.

"You have to eat," he told her that first day, as Gabrielle pushed aside the bowl of slop the guard had handed her.

"I can't." The words were barely a whisper. She felt cold and dead inside; there seemed to be a heavy, cold rock in the pit of her stomach. She wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep, and when she woke, all this would be gone. The idea of food made her want to be sick. She slumped on the ground, huddled into a ball. "I can't," she repeated numbly.

"You _have_ to." He shoved the bowl at her roughly. His voice was thin with frustration. "You have to keep up your strength."

Gabrielle pushed him away and turned her back on him. Only to have him grab her by the shoulder and pull her back. He forced the bowl into her hands, glaring at her darkly. "You have to, or you won't be able to keep up with the column. And if you can't keep up with the column, then what will happen to _me?_" he demanded furiously. They had taken his staff from him; she had been half-carrying him through the whole long first day. They had tried to stay in pace with the other slaves, but even so she'd felt the end of the guard's crop more than once. "_Eat it,"_ he had ordered her, his voice as hard as iron, and had hounded her with curses until she'd finished the entire bowl.

Unlike her, Caesar did not seem to be debilitated by slavery. Physically, he was clearly suffering a great deal—often at the end of a day's march, he would simply collapse to the ground, his crooked legs no longer able to support him. They were swollen a great deal of the time, and he spent most of their evenings and rest periods tending to them as best he could—rubbing them gently, trying to soothe them with a scrap of damp rag. Gabrielle wondered how bad they would get. She also wondered how long he would be able to keep up, even with her support. Caesar had difficulty sleeping at night; she would often wake in the middle of the night as he lay chained in the line beside her, to hear him cursing under his breath at the pain. It was clear that the pain he was in fueled some of his anger and hostility; Gabrielle understood this, even if it did not make her more sympathetic. However, despite everything, Caesar did not seem to sink into despair. If anything, he seemed almost to have come back to himself—not, perhaps, delusional as he had been during the earliest part of their acquaintance, but no longer the trembling, cowering, indecisive thing he had been since the battle of Laurel. His brittle hauteur was back, along with fractured flashes of his arrogant, overconfident manner. He bore the chains almost as if they were marks of distinction, and met the eyes of the guards with a coldly superior stare that earned him far more than his share of blows. He showed not the slightest sign of shame at being chained, before villagers or anyone else, and in fact the people they passed on the march tended to shy away from his icy glare. He even directed that arrogant gaze at Salmoneus when the Slaver Lord rode past them on the march or came by to look them over at rest stops—though that stare, which ruffled the guards' feathers so, affected Salmoneus not at all.

Gabrielle guessed that this strange transformation was due to Caesar's previous experiences with Xena; his mannerisms and demeanor now were very similar to those he had displayed when she had first seen him, chained to the base of the Dark Conqueror's throne. It made sense that after five years as Xena's trophy, he would have learned how to deal with slavery. But Gabrielle did not have much energy to spare contemplating Caesar's transformation. All her energy was needed to focus on the task of survival—the next step in the line, the next bowl of food, the next rest stop.

The days were always the same. The guards woke them with kicks and curses in the early hours of the morning, when the sun was just starting to peek over the horizon, to hand out water and bowls of tasteless slop. Gabrielle could barely choke it down, but Caesar always forced her to finish it all. After breakfast, the lines would be brought to their feet, to stand shivering in the cold morning air while the captains of the guards met with Salmoneus to discuss their travel route for the day. Gabrielle waited with the rest, her breath pluming before her in the early chill, feeling the irons icily cold against her neck and wrists. Caesar could not stand alone, so he leaned on her for support; she did her best to stand straight as he clutched at her shoulder. She stood, chained in line with the rest of the captives, until the conference broke up and the guards came riding toward them to lash the slaves into motion. Once they were moving, they stayed moving. They walked the entire day, in a long line, chains clinking, step by step over the cracked pavement of the main highways, over uneven surfaces of lesser, secondary roads, all day long, staring at the ground in front of them. Gabrielle could see them at night, long lines of feet moving up and down in front of her closed eyelids; sometimes she thought this would be what Tartarus was like. They never spoke on the march; any conversation was sure to bring the guards down on them, lashing with the thin crops they all carried. The quirts didn't do much damage, but they stung fiercely. There would usually be a break at midday, where more food was handed out; then they would walk till after sundown. After a brief break for the evening meal the guards would allow them to collapse into exhausted sleep, only to wake them again at dawn to begin all over again.

Eventually they would get to Ch'in. Gabrielle knew that; Salmoneus had said so that first day. It made sense. The rest of the world was in chaos from Xena's and Callisto's actions, and Ch'in was far enough away from Africa that Najara's forces wouldn't be able to find Salmoneus and force him to convert. She had always dreamed of visiting that far-off, mysterious land; she had eagerly soaked up the tales around the Academy from the few bards who had been to Ch'in and returned. Gabrielle had thought to go as a bard. She had never thought to be sold there into bondage, and the prospect filled her with dread and fear. Caesar never spoke of it.

Sometimes incidents would stand out in that dull silence that surrounded them:

There was the morning a drunk guard beat a slave to death, a scrawny, underfed young boy who had dared to ask for a second bowl of food; as the other guards restrained him, Salmoneus had come riding over, appearing not at all distressed by the incident, and said cheerfully, "Larinius? Well, boys, you know the deal. Lock him in line." And they had, taking the irons off the limp, sad form of the boy's scrawny body and fitting them roughly to the shouting, thrashing Larinius. "Cut out his tongue," Salmoneus had commanded genially, and it had been done. None of the guards had protested or sought to protect their comrade. And why should they? Gabrielle could see it in their eyes. They had the prospect of more wealth now as one of Salmoneus's guards than they ever had in their lives, some of them, and if they protested, they could lose it all. Besides…if they argued too hard, they could easily be next to be chained to the line. What was Larinius to them that he was worth that risk? It surprised Gabrielle a little how well she understood. She hadn't even glanced back as the column marched off, to see the small, still form of the boy lying unburied by the side of the road. She'd seen enough bodies by then to know what they looked like.

There was the morning Salmoneus had called the caravan to a sudden halt, standing among the pine trees at the edge of a river ford and listening sharply. A moment later, painted, feathered and furred men and women had come pouring out of the surrounding forest, grunting and snarling in a language Gabrielle didn't understand. She might not have understood the _words,_ but as a bard she knew the people, and cold fear almost struck her to the ground: while their reach and numbers had been seriously reduced by the titanic forces of Xena and Callisto and Najara, the Horde still lived on in bedtime stories as a menace of evil.

Standing in line—what else could she do? could any of them do?—she waited for the Horde to fall upon them and slaughter them all, thinking perhaps it would be for the best. The guards had all immediately tensed up, their hands going to their weapons, but Salmoneus had issued a harsh command to them. Smiling and with no sign of fear, the dapper, silver-haired little man had approached the biggest warrior and spoken to him in his own tongue. The big man had replied in monosyllables, and Salmoneus had smiled again, then gestured to his second in command, a human mountain who matched the Horde warrior for size. The captain had brought forward a large ornate trunk, which the Slaver Lord had opened to reveal a wealth of valuables within—jewels, silks, oil vials, perfumes. Two of the Horde came to take it as the leader spoke again; he drew his dagger and cut his palm, then took Salmoneus's hand and did the same, pressed the bleeding cuts together, and raised their joined hands high, shouting to his warriors.

As they faded back into the woods, carrying the trunk of valuables with them, she had heard Salmoneus say sagely to his captain, "They granted safe passage. I told you."

"How'd you know?" the guard had asked, and indeed, Gabrielle had wondered the same thing. "They're barbarians."

"I know the Horde," Salmoneus said with a shrug. "Underneath the paint and feathers, they're as human as you or I. Of course they're barbarians, but that doesn't mean we can't do business," he had replied blithely. "Listen well, Virgilius: whatever the philosophers of old may have said, greed is universal. It's the only thing that is." And he had carelessly wrapped a silken handkerchief around his bleeding hand.

As they walked, the terrain around them changed, from the rolling hills and valleys of the countryside around Potedaia, to thick woods and undergrowth, to wide open grassy meadows and then again to hills and valleys. The terrain grew rougher and more rugged, and bare rock began to show through the thin soil. The weather grew colder, the mornings chillier, the afternoons losing their languid, humid heat. As they walked, they began to climb; they were going uphill, leaving the lower lands around Potedaia behind. The light, open forests of beech and birch, of tangled oak and hickory, began to give way to darker evergreen—firs, spruce, pine trees, and as they reached higher, strong-scented cedars. They were coming into mountain country.

It was cold in the mountains, and the air was thin. It sapped Gabrielle's strength. Sometimes in the mornings there would be frost on the manacles and chains that bound the caravan together. As they climbed into the higher reaches, snow lay thick upon the ground; she still had her boots at least, but there were those in the caravan who were forced to wrap rags around their feet. With Caesar to carry, it became harder and harder for her to keep up the pace; the guards' lashes landed on her shoulders more and more frequently. Her shoulders burned, and her sore feet ached from days of walking. The cold hurt Caesar's legs as well, meaning that he leaned on her more and more heavily, something that was not pleasant for either of them. Finally, one day it was too much.

They had been walking since before morning, in heavy snow. The chains were so cold they burned against her neck and wrists. The guards rode up and down alongside the caravan, secure in thick cloaks, but the slaves shivered. For once, she was almost glad that she had to half-carry Caesar; he was, at least, warm. Warm as he was, though, he was _heavy,_ and getting heavier. His legs had been so bad that morning that he had been unable to stand, and had had to spend almost a quarter of an hour rubbing them while they were supposed to be eating, to allow Gabrielle to haul him upright. It had taken two tries; she had been unable to support him on the first try, and he had collapsed to the ground, cursing her bitterly. The cold, the chill, the pain in his legs seemed to be taking its toll on him, whether he had regained his hauteur or no; the brittle stridency that had always been a part of his manner was coming more to the fore, and the vitriol of the curses he piled upon her when he had fallen were extreme even for him.

The snow was up to her ankles as she stumbled on, step by uneven step; she tried to step into the prints the slaves ahead of her had made, because that was easier than breaking her own trail. She had lost feeling in her toes, and wondered distantly if that meant frostbite. Caesar was too heavy for her; the muscles in her back were quivering with the strain of holding him up. Any moment now she was sure she was going to fall flat to the ground; she told herself to just keep going, just keep going, one more step at a time, trying not to think any further than the next one….

Then it happened. Her foot came down on a patch of ice under the snow, and slipped out from under her. She reeled, could not catch her balance, and fell forward into the snowdrifts on either side of her. She did not get up, but lay there, trying to summon the strength to move. Wondering if she even wanted to. She heard raised voices in the background, and knew the guards would be there in moments to find out what the hold-up was, that they would beat her, but she couldn't make herself care. She had no reason to get up, and no reason to go on. The chill of the snow didn't even hurt as she lay there; it felt….peaceful. It touched the numb, cold place inside herself, covering the edges of that sick, empty feeling. She was tired. If she could just rest….Slowly, her eyes drifted closed.

Only to snap open again. "Get up." It was Caesar's voice, exhausted and furious. There was a hard grip on her bruised shoulder; she was being violently shaken.

Gabrielle didn't move. She hadn't the strength, and it didn't matter anyway. Even the shaking was receding into the distance; it felt as if it were happening to someone else. She simply closed her eyes again, waiting for him to go away.

Caesar shook her again, harder. "Get up!" His voice was a snarl of anger. "Get on your feet, stupid _woman!_ You _have_ to go on—"

Gabrielle burrowed more deeply into the snow, sinking into the thick gray warmth around her. Let him shake her, if he wanted to. It wouldn't change anything.

"Leave me alone," she heard herself mumbling. "I can't…can't stand this suffering. Let me…." She lay there, waiting for him to go away.

"_Get up_!"

A sharp, stinging pain struck the side of her face. Her head rocked, and thudded against the ground, hard. The pain and the impact jolted her out of her stupor; she opened her eyes again. She looked up to see Caesar above her. _What—_

He looked on the ragged edge of collapse. His face was pale, roughhewn, almost gaunt with strain. His dark eyes were shadowed, set deeply back in their sockets; they glittered with fatigue and rage. He looked almost as he had in the village of Laurel, when he had screamed at Taurus and Androcles. Even as beaten down as she was, Gabrielle could see that Caesar had reached the end of his rope.

"Get up," he snarled again. His voice was raw and ragged, furious. "Get_ up!_ I've _had_ it with you. I'm _sick_ of you. _Sick_ of you, do you hear? Do you think _anyone_ cares about you? You think you're suffering? What do _you_ know about suffering? What on _earth_ have _you_ suffered?" he demanded viciously. "Well, I won't die a slave, and I _refuse_ to die on _your_ say-so, is that clear? I _refuse!_ You hear me? So _get up,_ damn you! _Right now,_ do you hear, or else—" He hauled off with his chained hands and swung at her. The blow connected with her right cheek, rocking her head again.

He had _struck_ her. For the first time since they had been traveling together, that son of a bitch had _struck_ her.

In that moment, Gabrielle snapped.

Deep inside her, a monster raised its head and growled; a monster so strong that it frightened her in the split second before red rage flooded her being. This was not the slow, deliberate anger of the hatchet in Potedaia; this was an immediate and mindless burst of fury that swept aside her reason and left only a raving demon in its wake. She wanted to _crush_ him, to pound him to death with her bare hands, and she would go on pounding him even after he was dead.

Caesar was drawing back to strike her again, his dark eyes smoldering. He didn't get the chance. Gabrielle rolled to her knees and launched herself at him, heedless of his strength, going directly for his throat. He caught her and shoved her away with contemptuous ease, but as she staggered back, Gabrielle lashed out with one booted foot. It caught him on his twisted, misshapen right shin, hard enough to make him cry out; his right leg buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, almost dragging her with him because of the chain that joined their collars. Gabrielle pounced, seeing weakness, sensing blood; she stomped on his damaged leg with her entire weight, _grinding_ down on the bone with the heel of her boot. She had never heard him scream quite that loudly before; instead of appeasing her, somehow it fueled her rage. She wanted to hear it again. She wanted to make that bastard _howl_.

She drew back to kick him again, but he managed, somehow, to thrash away from her in the snow. They were at the very end of the line of slaves, but their fighting had managed to bring the entire line to a halt. Gabrielle lunged after him, snarling, only to have him get his hands around one of her ankles; he yanked, hard, and it was her turn to go crashing to the ground, hard enough to knock the wind out of her. As she lay there gasping like a landed fish, he locked his hands around her throat above the iron collar and squeezed. She could see the fury in his eyes. Choking, Gabrielle kicked out with her foot and caught him in the same leg she had stomped on earlier. He gave a cry and folded up on her; Gabrielle rolled away and drove her foot into his ribs. As he writhed on the ground, coughing helplessly, Gabrielle went for his throat. She had wrapped the chain joining her wrists around his neck and was drawing it tight by the time the guards caught up to them.

They were dragged apart by the guards, who separated them with blows, curses, and more than a few licks from the whip. Caesar could not stand on his own and had to be hauled to his feet by one of the guards. As the guards restrained them, Salmoneus came trotting up, his dainty white mare picking her way through the slush churned up by their fight; his brute of a second-in-command followed at his heels. "Is there some problem over here?" he asked pleasantly.

The guards holding them immediately paled, shifted and looked nervous. "No, not at all!" they hastened to assure him, speaking almost in chorus like a play.

Salmoneus nodded cheerily. "Excellent. Time is money, after all. So I expect we can start again in, say, five minutes?" It was not a question. He glanced at his captain.

"Yes, of course, Lord Salmoneus," one of the guards gulped.

"Wonderful. Carry on," he said blithely, and trotted off. Freed from his presence, the guards separated Gabrielle and Caesar, unlocking their chains and re-fastening them to the line at some distance from each other, cursing them all the while.

It was easier to march the rest of the day without Caesar leaning on her; Gabrielle was chained apart from him, but she saw him floundering in the snow, falling and having the guards beat him until he was able to get back to his feet. He was strongly favoring the leg she had stomped, limping heavily, and Gabrielle took a coldly vicious pleasure in this. Her throat was sore where he had choked her, and there was a pain in her side where she had bruised a rib falling to the ground, but it was worth it when she watched his struggles. From time to time their eyes met; Gabrielle could see the hate in his eyes. It matched her own. When they stopped for the night, he collapsed in the snow, too exhausted, Gabrielle saw, even to take his share of the food the guards doled out to them.

It was as they settled into camp for the night that the bounty hunters came.


	3. Chapter 3

The caravan had stopped in the lee of a vast outcropping of rock. It broke the wind a little. There were pine trees at the edge of the campsite, but they were far enough back to provide a sizeable clearing. Ashy depressions in the hard-packed soil showed that the place had been used for a campsite frequently.

The guards had chained the slaves into position around small fires they had started, and were handing out food and in the process of setting up Salmoneus's tent, when the strangers came. There were maybe a dozen or two of them, scruffy-looking men and women, some on foot, some mounted; they came up along the narrow path by which the caravan had entered the clearing. The woman in the lead was blonde, not especially tall—though it was hard to tell, as she was on horseback—and slender. She had a sword and bow at her back.

"Salmoneus, the Slaver Lord?" she called out, drawing her horse to a halt.

The caravan's guards were all getting to their feet, reaching for weapons, and turning toward the newcomers, but Salmoneus stopped them all with a sharp word. He had been overseeing the men setting up his tent, but now he turned away from them and approached the woman on horseback.

"Well, this _is_ an honor," he said, drawing near. He was smiling that warm, cheerful smile, though Gabrielle saw that it never touched his eyes; they remained watchful and wary. "How might a humble merchant such as myself be of assistance to so illustrious a person as Ravenica?"

The woman frowned down at him. "You know me?"

"Know you? Of _course!_" Salmoneus said, smiling. "Who _hasn't_ heard of Ravenica 'the Raven,' Queen of Bounty Hunters?"

_Queen of Bounty Hunters._ Gabrielle's heart went cold inside her. _Oh no. No, no, no…_ She had heard stories of Ravenica too, known as the Raven for her cruelty and relentlessness. Quickly she tried to push in more deeply among the rest of the slaves, hoping not to be seen.

"And I take it that _you_ are indeed the Slaver Lord?" Ravenica's voice was harsh, straightforward.

Salmoneus bowed slightly and smiled. The caravan guards in the background remained watchful and at the ready, eying Ravenica's men and women closely. "That's what they call me," he said cheerfully. "Let me assure you, though, while slaving is the largest and most profitable of my business ventures, I trade in other valuables as well. I have many a dainty trinket among my merchandise that might interest a lady of discerning taste such as yourself. Silks and lacquered boxes from Ch'in….lovely jewels from exotic India….perhaps some rare and expensive perfumes from the sands of Arabia?" He looked up at her on horseback. Ravenica's face was grim and unmoving in the firelight. "None of those will suit?" he asked, undaunted. "Well then—" He waved a hand at the slaves chained in huddled masses around the fires. "It is cold up here in the mountain passes….may I interest you in a lusty lad or lissome lass to warm your bed, my Queen?"

"She doesn't _need_ a lad or a lass!" A young man pushed his way roughly forward from among Ravenica's crew, hand on his sword hilt. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with short-cropped blond hair and a scar running down his face; he looked young, pugnacious, and very hot-headed. "That position's filled. Isn't that right, Ravenica?" he asked hotly, turning toward her. "So just _keep_ your—"

"Palaemon, settle down," Ravenica interrupted shortly. She did not so much as glance in his direction. He subsided, scowling darkly. Ravenica pulled out a scroll from her belt pouch and unrolled it. "My crew and I are here at the behest of Callisto the Fiery…."

Gabrielle missed the rest of what she said. Her guts crawled. _No,_ she thought again. _No, no, please…_. She felt as if she were going to be sick, right there. Trembling, she huddled in among the other slaves, turning her face toward the ground, hoping against hope that she would not be seen.

Ravenica was continuing on. She had drawn closer to Salmoneus and lowered her voice; only snippets of the conversation came to Gabrielle's ears. "….picked up some information that the object of the Bright Warrior's search might be in among your slave caravan…..permission to search and question your slaves, if they know anything…." Her voice grew lower, and Gabrielle could no longer hear. She could do nothing but huddle and wait for the doom to fall upon her.

Salmoneus's voice came back. "Anything for my lady Callisto," he answered at once. "No compensation will be necessary; surely Callisto the Fiery must know that everything I have is at her disposal, to do with as she pleases."

"A wise attitude, little man," Ravenica said dryly.

"Not at all. A humble merchant such as myself does not dare incur the wrath of the Bright Warrior. Please, by all means."

"Callisto will certainly hear of your cooperation," Ravenica replied. "Men! Spread out! Start checking the slaves!"

_This is it._ Gabrielle could sense the doom descending on her, as heavy as the chains she bore. Her only hope was to escape notice. If she could hide far enough back among the other slaves….

She risked a glance over her shoulder. Ravenica's men had spread out and were coming down the lines toward her. Now Ravenica swung down from her horse and stepped forward, facing the caravan, addressing the slaves directly as they huddled in their groups around the fires.

"Listen well, slaves!" Ravenica called out, her words ringing in the cold mountain air. "I am here at the orders of Callisto the Fiery. The Bright Warrior has sent us to search for a girl, a bard, named Gabrielle of Potedaia." The words fell on Gabrielle's ears like hammerblows. "We have information connecting the bard with this caravan. If any of you knows anything about her, speak now; if what you have to say is good enough and matches with what we know, we will reward you with your freedom, a horse, and ten thousand dinars. So how about it, slaves? Which one of you will share what you know about the bard Gabrielle?"

It felt like a dream. All the sound seemed to have rushed out of the world around her. Slowly Gabrielle raised her head and looked across the fire. Her eyes found Caesar, just as he turned to look at her. In that single despairing instant, their eyes met, and Gabrielle saw exactly what he was going to do, and knew that there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop it.

Numbly, as if from a vast distance, she watched Caesar straighten. She had time to observe, dispassionately, that his returned arrogance drew the eye and compelled attention; Ravenica stopped speaking and looked toward him, and her men stopped where they were and looked over at him as well. Caesar met Ravenica's gaze with cool assurance, just as if he weren't a chained slave in rags. He raised one manacled hand to the extent of the chain and gestured in Gabrielle's direction. "The bard Gabrielle?" he asked. "She's right there."

"_You bastard!"_ Gabrielle heard herself scream at him in despairing fury. _"You arrogant **bastard**! After all I've done for you!"_ That frightening rage surfaced again; she lunged at him, but the chains were too short to let her reach him. Caesar looked at her, smiling coldly; the light from the fire glimmered in his dark eyes. _"I set you free—I protected you—I took care of you—I **killed** for you! I_ **_killed_** _for you!"_ The words were coming from outside her; they seemed to have no connection with her. Her only thought was to get her hands around his throat and choke him to death. She fought against the chains, heedless of the pain in her wrists and neck. _"You bastard! You bastard! You—"_

Strong hands clamped around her arms, drawing her back, and she was turned to find herself staring into Ravenica's face. Ravenica roughly gripped her chin and tipped her face toward the light, then glanced down at the scroll she held. "This is her," she said, not to Gabrielle, but to one of the guards holding her. "She matches the picture precisely. Fetch the keys, and unlock her."

"And my reward?" Caesar asked coolly.

Ravenica turned to look at him. There was something strange in the stare she gave him; her face was grim and unsmiling in the firelight. She glanced over her shoulder. "Bring the other scroll," she commanded. She took the paper from the hands of one of her men and glanced at it, then looked back at Caesar again.

"What's your name, slave?" she asked him.

"Gaius," Caesar answered her. Ravenica looked down at the scroll again, then back at him. She looked him over thoroughly, completely ignoring his cool gaze.

"Dark hair," she murmured in a low voice, "dark eyes, crippled legs, scarring on throat and wrists…." Something that wasn't a smile tugged at her mouth. She straightened, and turned to her men.

"Good news, everyone—looks like we've got an extra ten thousand dinars of reward money to split. Isn't that right, Gaius—or should I say—_Caesar?_"

Caesar's face froze; Gabrielle could read him well enough to sense the shock behind that façade, and felt a vicious surge of pleasure that he could be caught too. He looked as if he had been kicked in the gut; he stared at the Raven with his mouth open, completely stunned.

Ravenica had continued speaking; she turned to her men. "Imagine that: two birds with one stone. Callisto will be pleased with us, I think." And she stood there, with that flicker of a smile playing around her otherwise stony face, as her crew moved forward to take possession of Caesar and Gabrielle together.

* * *

The two of them were unlocked and led together away from Salmoneus's caravan through the pine trees, back to the bounty hunters' camp. Caesar was forced to walk; his hands were tied in front of him, with a rope leading from his wrists to Ravenica's saddle. Gabrielle, however, got to ride; Ravenica's men also took Argo from Salmoneus's caravan, and Gabrielle was placed on her back, bound to the saddle. She could take no comfort in the rest, nor spare much of a thought as to why they were being treated differently; she was too apprehensive about what was to come.

Back at the campsite, Ravenica's men and women quickly dispersed without orders around the campsite, tending to various chores. Caesar's legs had completely given out on him halfway there; he had fallen in the snow and been unable to rise no matter how they beat him. He had been carried between two of the guards the rest of the way; the guards proceeded to bind him to a tree near the fire, where he sat limply, with his head hanging down.

As they were fastening him into place, Gabrielle was lifted down carefully from Argo's back by another of Ravenica's men. The man took her hand just as if she were a princess, and escorted her to a small tent set up near the center of the campsite. As she entered the dim interior of the tent, Gabrielle saw that it was richly furnished; on the cot, piled high with luxurious furs, there had been laid out for her a heavy silk brocade robe, with earrings and bracelets. The gold and silver embroidery on the robe alone would have been enough to buy Potedaia several times over.

_What is this?_ She reached out and touched the fabric, feeling the silk catch under her rough fingers. _What is going on here?_

"It's for you. Put it on."

She started at the words and turned, to see Ravenica behind her. The woman's expression was as harsh as it had been at Salmoneus's caravan. Gabrielle stared at her.

"Why?"

"Why what?" Ravenica asked.

"Why…." She turned and stared at the robe; she thought about how she had been permitted to ride Argo while Caesar had been forced to walk. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

Ravenica's face did not change. "Callisto gave very specific instructions on how you were to be treated," she said. "In addition to clothing and jewelry, Callisto provided this tent, and a palanquin for you as well. We are a few days away from her stronghold, and she said to make your journey as comfortable as possible."

"What about Caesar?" Gabrielle asked.

"The Bright Warrior gave no such instructions for him. She said to treat him as we would any other prisoner."

Gabrielle supposed the news should have made her feel better. It didn't. If anything it increased her fear. She wasn't sure what Callisto was doing, but she was sure it was nothing good. She touched the robe again, thinking at least it looked warm.

"Are you afraid, Gabrielle?" Ravenica asked.

"Yes," Gabrielle said in a whisper. She turned and searched Ravenica's face, looking desperately for some reassurance. She found none. The bounty hunter's face could have been carved from stone.

"You are wise to fear Callisto." Ravenica stepped back. She looked at Gabrielle. "According to Callisto's orders, you have the run of the encampment. However, I must warn you—don't try to escape us, or to run away. Callisto the Fiery gave strict orders for that too. You would like those orders considerably less."

The hangings at the door of the tent rustled as she pushed them aside; then Ravenica was gone. Alone in the interior of the tent, Gabrielle picked up the heavy robe and slipped it on, over her top and skirt. It was cold, but the robe was warm around her. She fastened it closed, then sat down on the cot in the darkness, chewing her lip and quivering with fear.

* * *

Gabrielle saw little of the terrain on the journey to Callisto's encampment. The palanquin Callisto had provided for her was richly carved out of mahogany and teak, hung with silks and brocade; when the curtains were drawn, it was warm and shut out the world outside. The first day or so, its jolting made her queasy; by the second day, she had adapted. She still felt sick, but not from the motion of her litter; this illness was from trepidation about what awaited her at the journey's end. She thought, long and hard, about trying to run away, but couldn't find the courage to do it. She had no idea where they were or what settlements, if any, were nearby, and she suspected that it was very likely she would be caught again shortly. Ravenica's words about the orders Callisto had left in case she tried to flee chilled her to the bone whenever she thought of them. She tried to come up with some plan for escape, but the fear seemed to cloud her mind; she could take no action, but only lie there helplessly, carried along in the heart of Ravenica's party, and wait for whatever would come.

She was so afraid she might even have consulted with Caesar about it—she had no ideas, and the imminent threat to them both pushed aside the anger she felt at him—but she had no opportunity; he was forced to walk on his mangled legs, while she was carried, and in the evenings he was bound to a tree and placed under guard. She knew better than to take any satisfaction from the difference in their treatment; she knew that the privilege accorded to her did not necessarily mean anything good. She watched him from a distance, trying to see any trace in him of the fear that she felt, but could make nothing out; he never met her eyes, or anyone's. She guessed he was in a great deal of pain, and felt a distant flicker of not-quite-sympathy for him. She wondered what he was thinking.

Ravenica rarely spoke to her; only in the mornings before the march and in the evenings afterwards, to see if she needed anything and how she was doing. The Queen of Bounty Hunters was always courteous and respectful, never threatening, but Gabrielle was afraid of her nonetheless; the Raven's expression was grim, and she never, ever smiled. Neither did the men and women in her employ. Gabrielle observed them as they went about their rounds making camp; they spoke little, were terse and economical in their movements, and carried out their chores in largely silent efficiency without being ordered. Gabrielle, watching them, guessed that this crew had been working together for a long time.

The exception to the rule was the man named Palaemon. Among the taciturn, dour crew, the blond man with the scarred face stood out dramatically. It was clear that he was sharing Ravenica's bed; Gabrielle could see that from the way he disappeared into her tent in the evenings and appeared, stretching with lazy, cocky arrogance, in front of the doorway to her tent in the mornings. When the other members of the crew attended to camp chores such as getting firewood in the evenings, Palaemon did no work whatever, contenting himself with standing or leaning against a tree and observing smugly whatever was going on. The other members of the group largely ignored him. When forced to deal with him, they treated him with a frigid distance that he seemed not to notice, or to feel. Palaemon strutted through the camp like a petty godling, lording it over the rest of the crew, apparently feeling that his position as Ravenica's lover set him above the others. Gabrielle wondered how true that was.

As they set up camp one evening, Palaemon descended on the men and women working to set up the tent that Callisto had provided for Gabrielle. All day, he had been harassing the crew with petty, spiteful commands which had no purpose other than to demonstrate his status, and which Ravenica's crew mostly ignored. "What are you doing?" he demanded. "My lady Ravenica wants that set up on the north side of the camp, next to the stream!"

Gabrielle had heard Ravenica give the order herself to put Gabrielle's tent where it was. The woman he was addressing paid him no heed, simply continuing to pound in the tent pegs and attach the lines.

Palaemon moved to take the hammer out of her hands. "Hey, didn't you hear me? Ravenica says—" He reached for the hammer. The woman turned her back to him in such a way that she shouldered him aside. She gave no response to him. Palaemon frowned thunderously.

"Hey! Listen when I'm talking to you!" He reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder. He probably meant to do no more than turn her to face him, but Gabrielle saw the telltale tension in her body a split second before it happened; in one moment the woman yanked free of him, and used that momentum to deliver a strong strike to his jaw. She hadn't used the hand that held the hammer, but even so the blow was hard enough to send him staggering back a step. The woman raised the hammer, looking at him with a flat resolution. Palaemon was staring at her, stunned; he was rubbing his jaw.

"You _hit_ me!" he burst out, shocked.

The woman didn't bother to respond; she merely watched him, her face set. Motion around the encampment had stopped, as the other men and women paused in the middle of their chores to turn in his direction.

"You can't _do_ that!" Palaemon said angrily. "You can't—Ravenica—she—" He stopped, suddenly seeming to realize that all attention was focused on him. His face darkened.

"Oh, aren't you gonna get it—" he began. He took a step forward, his hand going to his sword hilt. The woman watched him, her eyes flat. Palaemon hesitated visibly.

Ravenica had been on the fringes of the encampment, talking to the sentries; now she came over. "What's the problem?"

Palaemon turned to her. "Ravenica, she _hit_ me!" he repeated in tones of shocked outrage. "Tell her she can't—"

"Palaemon, be quiet," Ravenica said without so much as a glance in his direction. Her face was set like stone. "Lydia, what's the problem?"

Lydia said something briefly; her voice was too low for Gabrielle to hear. Palaemon's scowl darkened. "Are you going to—"

"I see," Ravenica said, interrupting him. "Lydia, carry on." The woman nodded, and she turned away from the two of them, back to pounding in the peg. Palaemon's face wore an expression of outraged fury.

"Ravenica, you can't _seriously_ be _listening_ to her on this! She _hit_ me!" he protested. "You can't—you—if—"

Ravenica turned to look at him. Palaemon broke off, stuttering, groping for words. Gabrielle saw him look around the encampment. The men and women who had paused in their chores were all watching him with the same flat expression. He looked back at Ravenica, and the cocky assurance seemed to drain out of him.

"Ravenica…" he began, and Gabrielle heard the whining note in his voice.

"Palaemon, go to my tent. Wait there for me."

Palaemon started to protest, but then took another look around the campsite. The crew members were still watching him coldly. Shoulders slumped, he obeyed her; he turned and trudged across the clearing to Ravenica's tent, set up on the edge. There was no doubt in Gabrielle's mind that he found both the order and his obedience every bit as humiliating as Ravenica had no doubt intended, but what else could he do?

Ravenica watched him all the way to her tent, then came toward Gabrielle, where she waited near the fire that had been kindled. "Your tent should be up shortly," she told Gabrielle. "Are you well? Is there anything you need?"

"Why do you keep him around?" Gabrielle asked.

Ravenica glanced toward her tent, in the direction of the absent Palaemon. "He has his uses," she said only. At first Gabrielle thought that it was a double entendre, but there was absolutely no warmth, humor, or emotion of any kind on the Raven's stern face. Gabrielle shivered.

"We should reach Callisto's stronghold tomorrow," she told Gabrielle, looking back at her. The fear that gripped her at those words drove all thoughts of Palaemon right out of Gabrielle's head.

"What—what will happen then?" she whispered, her mouth dry.

"That's up to the Bright Warrior," the Queen of Bounty Hunters said flatly. "My job ends when I have delivered you and Caesar safely into her hands. I don't know what she plans to do with you, nor do I care. But if you believe in the gods…." She paused, examining the young bard.

"What?" Gabrielle asked in a whisper. She swallowed. Her hands were sweating, and she wiped them on the silk of the lovely outer robe she wore.

"I would suggest that you pray."

Ravenica turned and walked off, leaving Gabrielle standing there in the mud of the clearing, cold and afraid.

_Tomorrow._ Her eyes found Caesar, where he was bound to a tree on the other side of the clearing. He lifted his head, and their gazes met; his dark eyes were glassy with fatigue and pain, and Gabrielle could not read the expression in them. He looked away first. Gabrielle wondered if he knew.

_Tomorrow._


	4. Chapter 4

It was lowering dusk when Ravenica's team came up the winding dirt road to Callisto's stronghold. A forbidding stone fortress, square and black against the deepening sky, there was nothing about it that spoke of comfort.

As they approached the fortress, Gabrielle pulled the brocaded curtains back from the walls of the palanquin, so that she could be as prepared as she could for whatever would come. Not that she had any illusions that any sort of preparation could make the slightest bit of difference in what would happen. She pulled the curtains open, but before they had come within a mile of the fortress, she desperately wanted to shut them again.

The land around the stronghold looked like what Callisto had left of Potedaia. The countryside had been ravaged by Callisto's armies. Unburied bodies, burned-out villages, scorched fields, cindered crops passed by on either side. The sky was sullen gray and overcast, perhaps with the pall of smoke that hung almost visibly in the air. A stench hung over the countryside, of decaying corpses, charred flesh and smoldering wood; even some of Ravenica's men were affected by it, Gabrielle saw. _If ever there was a land of the dead,_ Gabrielle thought to herself, _this would be it._

The roadway itself was lined with evidences of Callisto's cruelty. It was enough to make Gabrielle sick, yet she could not turn away as her litter bearers, looking neither to the right nor to the left, carried her past the frightful, horrible apparitions—heads decaying on poles, corpses of men and women who had been peeled like apples, their raw flesh blackening in the sun, flies buzzing merrily around them. And fire. The first time Gabrielle saw what looked like a pile of charred sticks lying at the base of a large tree or stone, her mind could not interpret what she was seeing. It was only after she had seen another, and another, and another, and seen the chains that, blackened and soot-stained, lay still among the ashes, that she realized what it was—a man or a woman had been burned to death there, chained in place. There were far more of these than of anything else. Gabrielle watched this, saw the bodies lying beside the road, and wondered why they had been killed—there were no signs painted on trees or pinned up over their heads, announcing their crimes, as had sometimes been done in Athens. Deep in her heart, she knew—they had been killed for sport.

The first stars were appearing in the night sky by the time Ravenica's party reached the outer fringes of the camp surrounding the stronghold. Sentries stopped them at the entrance to the camp. Ravenica spoke with them quietly. They might have been the men that Callisto inherited from Xena, yet they had a strange, bright light in their eyes that Gabrielle had not seen in any of Xena's men. _They're mad,_ she thought to herself, and shivered in fear. Ravenica's men kept back as she conferred with them; they grinned unpleasantly as they stood aside to let the party through.

The procession continued, through the muddy, churned up lanes that wound between the tents. Looking around her, Gabrielle was silent in fear. If this had once been Xena's army, she couldn't see it. Xena's camp had been a rough place, certainly, where men cursed and fought with each other and where quarrels over games of chance could turn violent with startling rapidity—but at the same time, there had been an air of efficiency that had impressed itself even on someone as unversed in military matters as she was: the lanes through the camp had been clear and clean of rubbish and garbage; the tents had been well-mended and in good repair; equipment had been in good order and the men had exuded a sense of discipline; and when quarrels had turned violent, officers had stepped in easily to separate the offenders—often herding them apart with blows—before marching them off in restraints to face punishment.

Callisto's encampment, in contrast, looked like something out of an etching of Tartarus. The men Ravenica's procession passed were filthy, slovenly, many of them clearly drunk. The equipment Gabrielle saw on the soldiers was rusty and untended, sometimes even falling apart; the armor worn by the ill-disciplined patrol they passed on the way up the center lane was mismatched and looked sloppily assembled from old parts. Offal and filth lay piled high in the streets, everything from human waste to bloated animals to bones and body parts; Ravenica's crew picked their way gingerly around the worst of it. The tents were ragged, patched haphazardly and set up in no discernible pattern that Gabrielle could see, as opposed to the neat blocks of Xena's encampment. As they made their way past one area, Gabrielle could see a brawl raging between four or five men with no sign of any officers anywhere to restrain them. And all of the men they saw—_all_—had the same frightening light in their eyes that Gabrielle had seen with the sentries: a strange, too-bright gleam that looked like the light of madness. Callisto's men reeked of killing, of blood lust, of an almost inhuman savagery that chilled Gabrielle to the bone. Ravenica's crew seemed to sense it too: as they progressed deeper into the army encampment, the men and women grew quieter, grimmer; they closed up around the palanquin, their hands hovering close to their weapons, as if at any moment they expected an attack to fall upon them. Palaemon was close to the center, his usual bluster gone; he had been quiet and sulky all day, after Ravenica's reprimand of him yesterday, but now his sulkiness had drained out of him. Gabrielle tried to catch Caesar's eye; she wanted to see what he thought of the changes. Caesar was silent, as he lurched after Ravenica's horse, but his mouth was tight and his dark eyes glinted. He did not look pleased by what he saw.

The entrance to Callisto's fortress looked, to Gabrielle in her nervous state, like the mouth of a hungry beast; two massive, solid oak plank doors stood open, the wood dark against the darker stone walls to either side, and an iron grating was raised above the gap like teeth. The interior of the stronghold was lost in gloom. Two sentries slouched, one on either side of the door, holding pikes carelessly aslant; as Ravenica's party approached, one of them laboriously straightened himself, and held out his pike, barring the way. "State yer name and business," he said insolently. He was unshaven, dirty; his short blond hair was scruffy and matted.

Ravenica indicated the palanquin. "Ravenica, Queen of Bounty Hunters: we're here to collect Callisto's bounty for Gabrielle, the Bard of Potedaia, the Dark Conqueror's crippled bed-slave Caesar—" she indicated Caesar here, and Gabrielle saw stifled rage flash in his eyes "—and Xena's horse, Argo." Here Argo was led forward by one of her men; the palomino came docilely enough.

The sentry came to the edge of the palanquin and peered into Gabrielle's face, then looked down at the poster Ravenica handed him. He glanced at Caesar and Argo, and smirked. "Quite a haul. No wonder they call you Queen of Bounty Hunters…" His smirk died in the face of Ravenica's stony stare. "They're the ones. No doubt about it; they match the posters, all right."

"The bounty?" Ravenica asked.

"After Callisto sees 'em," he replied. "The Bright Warrior's second Theodorus'll pay ya." As the bearers lifted the poles, the sentry held out his pike again. "Only one of ya goes in. The rest of ya wait out here. There's a special reward for the one who presents them to Callisto the Fiery."

The bearers set the palanquin down on the ground. Ravenica herself came to the side of the litter and offered Gabrielle her hand, lifting her out as if she were a princess, for the last time. Gabrielle's legs were unsteady and threatened to fold up on her; the heavy brocaded robes she wore seemed to be stifling her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of Ravenica's men cutting the ropes that bound Caesar's wrists. Ravenica glanced at him, then looked back at Gabrielle, unsmiling. She offered a slight bow. "My job ends here," she said to Gabrielle. "This is as far as I take you."

Gabrielle's heart was pounding in her chest. As grim and emotionless as Ravenica had been, at least she was familiar and had never treated Gabrielle unkindly; the thought of facing the Bright Warrior without even so uncertain a protector as Ravenica at her side made her want to cower. Her mouth was dry; she had to swallow before she could speak. "Aren't—aren't you going in with us?" she faltered.

Ravenica shook her head, her face stone. She turned away from Gabrielle, with an air that suggested she had dismissed the bard completely from her thoughts. "Palaemon," she said. The word was a command.

The young, scarred man jerked in surprise, and turned toward her. "Ravenica?" he asked uncertainly.

"Take them in."

He stared at her for a long moment, as if trying to make sense of what she had said. Ravenica's men and women had all turned to watch, their faces as flat as that of their leader. "M—me?" he asked.

"Yes. You. You told me once you wanted to meet the Bright Warrior. This is your chance."

"You—you really mean that?" he faltered. As Ravenica nodded, his habitual grin slowly spread across his face. "Well, it's about time. And the special reward he mentioned?"

"It's all yours. You've earned it."

His smile grew. "Glad to hear you admit it. It's good to know you finally appreciate me."

"I do," Ravenica said flatly.

He drew himself up straight, his hand going to his sword hilt; he practically exuded cocky arrogance. "Give me a kiss."

Ravenica watched him for a moment, her face absolutely expressionless, then stepped forward. She put her arms up, and pulled him close. The kiss she gave him was shockingly passionate; Gabrielle stared in surprise. When the Raven at last released Palaemon, he looked slightly dazed; it seemed to take him a moment to orient himself. As he focused on Ravenica again, she stepped back. No hint of that passion was in her face. "Go on," she told him.

"With pleasure." He tossed her a salute, then turned and sauntered into the hallway. Quickly, Gabrielle glanced at Ravenica's crew; they watched in total silence. Gabrielle could not read any of their faces. She swallowed, suddenly afraid, and caught Caesar's eye. He shook his head, tight-lipped, and looked away.

As the sentries came forward to push Gabrielle and Caesar after Palaemon, Gabrielle couldn't stop herself from throwing a glance back at Ravenica. The Queen of Bounty Hunters raised her hand in salute.

"Gabrielle," she told her, "Goodbye."

* * *

The hall through the double doors was dark and cavernous, its ceiling lost in gloom, pitch-dark shadows lying in the corners. As she entered the vast interior space with Caesar at her side and guards at her back, determined to drive her onwards, Gabrielle felt as if she were being swallowed up—entering the belly of the beast.

The footsteps of the sentries at her back echoed behind her and Caesar, bouncing off the high walls and disappearing into the darkness. The hall seemed to stretch out to the fore and to either side of them forever. Gabrielle found herself pressing close to Caesar as the guards pushed them down the hallway, out of sheer fear. Even Palaemon grew more and more subdued as they advanced down that vast stone cave—or so it seemed to Gabrielle. His stride grew less jaunty; the tune he had been idly whistling died on his lips, and he gripped the hilt of his sword with white knuckles as they journeyed deeper into the fort. Gabrielle could barely spare a thought for him, however. All her attention was fixed on the huge doors at the _other_ end of the hallway, the doors they were approaching. Tall and wooden, the twin of the entryway doors, they seemed grim, deadly, dangerous. _Abandon hope all ye who enter here,_ Gabrielle thought, shivering in dread.

As they drew nearer the doors, Gabrielle became aware of a slow, creeping cold—a chill not of the body but of the mind, a sort of bone-deep, primal fear that affected her almost at a level below that of conscious thought. It grew stronger and stronger as they drew nearer and nearer the doors, causing her to tremble and her knees to shake. Her mouth was dry and her hands sweating. Caesar also had paled slightly, Gabrielle saw with a glance at him. As they halted outside the tall wooden doors, waiting for the sentries to open them, Gabrielle realized what she was feeling.

_Callisto_.

And so it was.

* * *

As with Xena and Najara before her, Gabrielle felt her before she saw her.

When the sentries threw open the double doors, it took Gabrielle's eyes a moment to adjust to the lighted interior of the throne room within. However, she did not need light to find the Bright Warrior. As if by instinct, Gabrielle's gaze went to _her._

_She._ As with Najara, as with Xena, the term _she_ seemed a more powerful and potent designation than any mere name or epithet could ever be. Callisto the Fiery, the Bright Warrior—these were simply words used by mere mortal men and women in an attempt to define and limit her—to constrain one who, by the sheer nature of her own existence, defied all constraints. They did not describe her, and could not even begin to capture the essence of what she was. If she could be constrained in such a fashion, then she would not be what she was—and besides, who was there on earth or of the gods who possessed either the power or the audacity to attempt to constrain _her?_

She was at the other end of the throne room from Gabrielle and Caesar, but it made no difference; Callisto's presence was _so_ strong that the sense of her filled the entire room to the walls, making Gabrielle cower back from her in spite of the distance between them. Gabrielle felt something hard strike her back, and only then realized she had been backing up in an attempt to flee. The sentry behind her shoved her forward again; she staggered forward one step, then stopped, frozen, prevented from moving closer to the throne as if by an invisible wall. Callisto saw it and smiled a small, secret smile.

The Bright Warrior was perched on the throne at the other end of the throne room from the entryway; she was leaning her chin upon her hand. Her pale blonde hair—lighter than Gabrielle's own—was matted, knotted and snarled just as it had been the first time Gabrielle had seen her, and hung in her face. Her large brown eyes were shadowed, thoughtful, and a small smile played about her lips. Xena's chakram hung by her side. She captured the attention to such a degree that it took Gabrielle a moment to register the rest of her surroundings. After a moment, however, she recognized the throne on which Callisto was seated—it was Xena's Dragon Throne, a massive, heavy chair raised off the ground by a flight of steep, narrow steps, its back and arms and legs carved in the shape of sinuous, twisting dragons, gilded and inlaid with jade and rubies and lapis lazuli. The last time Gabrielle had seen it, Caesar had been chained to its steps; the iron ring that had held his chain was still in place. The dragons almost seemed to writhe in the light given off from the firepits—two huge bonfires blazing one on either side of the throne, filling the room with lurid light. The heat from the fires hung, oppressive in the still air, and combined with the Bright Warrior's terrifying presence, gave Gabrielle the feeling of being suffocated; the crackling and roaring of the fires filled her ears. Brilliant sparks reflected from them in the depths of Callisto's brown eyes.

The Bright Warrior raised her head. "Gabrielle." Her voice was soft, yet somehow carried over the crackling of the flames. "Caesar. This is wonderful." That smile tugged at her lips again. "I'm so glad you came."

Gabrielle said nothing. She was breathing too quickly, her heart pounding in her chest. She edged closer to Caesar, throwing a quick glance in his direction; his expression was set and unreadable, but his eyes smoldered. He did not look happy.

"But who," Callisto said, turning those large brown eyes toward Palaemon, "is this?"

Gabrielle thought she would have cowered under the weight of those luminous eyes; but Palaemon proved to be made of sterner stuff. He was pale, and licked his lips briefly, but wrapped his hand around his sword hilt. "The name is Palaemon," he said, and dropped into a bow with a flourish. "Palaemon the Fierce, at your service, my lady," he continued with a brave attempt at a rakish grin.

_The Fierce?_ Gabrielle thought distantly. She guessed he had given himself that name. Callisto merely looked at him, her brown eyes gleaming; Palaemon's grin withered and died on his lips. He swallowed, but soldiered on gamely. "I've always wanted to meet you," he said.

Callisto's smile took a bit of an edge to it. "If only I could say the same."

Palaemon faltered for a split second, then continued. "I'm with the Raven's crew, but I could be persuaded to put my sword at your service." He tried for a grin again, and this time mostly succeeded.

"What an…_intriguing_…offer," Callisto purred. Gabrielle swallowed, pressing further back from the Bright Warrior's throne. Callisto the Fiery's smile grew. "Are you the one who brought these prisoners in?"

"That's right, my lady," he said at once, and wasted no time embroidering on the assertion. "I prized them from the grip of the fearsome Slaver Lord, and brought them all this way to present them to you in hopes of earning your favor." Under Callisto's delighted smile, Palaemon seemed to regain some of his confidence, he straightened visibly, drawing his shoulders back.

"Excellent," Callisto said. "I'm very, _very_ pleased." Her eyes moved past Palaemon to the men standing behind them. "Sentries," she said, facing them. "Give the orders for the preparations to begin…we wouldn't want our guests to feel unwelcome, now, would we?"

"And my reward?" Palaemon asked.

Callisto looked back at him, her eyes wide and innocent. "_Your_ reward?"

"The sentries said that you promised a 'special' reward for the one who presented the prisoners to you," he said, and gave that rakish grin again.

"I did, didn't I?" Callisto's smile grew sharp as a knife. "Well, you heard the man," she commanded her guards. "Give Palaemon the Fierce his reward."

In that split second, Gabrielle knew; she thought that Palaemon must have figured it out too, although perhaps a hairsbreadth of time later than she did. He stared blankly at Callisto for an instant, then started to reach for his sword, but it was too late; the man standing next to Gabrielle reached out and grabbed him around the throat, while the other sentry almost casually plunged his weapon into Palaemon's chest. A flash of shocked betrayal spread across Palaemon's face for no more than an instant, before the body was released and his corpse crumpled lifelessly to the ground. He was dead before he even had the chance to cry out.

Gabrielle looked away. _He should have known better,_ she thought. Caesar's expression did not so much as flicker, she saw; he remained, staring at Callisto, his features set.

Callisto tilted her head back and laughed wonderfully, shaking her long hair down her back. "Guards," she said, smiling, her brown eyes sparkling. "Give Ravenica her bounty, and remove the remains of her unfortunate friend."

* * *

After the guards had withdrawn, there was silence in the throne room, except for the roaring of the fires.

Gabrielle put her back to the wall, swallowing. It never even occurred to her to wonder how Callisto dared to be alone with the two of them; she knew for an absolute fact that neither one of them stood so much as a prayer of harming the Bright Warrior in combat. Callisto clasped her hands together and looked down at the two of them, glancing from one to the other, as solemn as a little girl making an offering to the gods.

"Well, well, well," she said softly. "Alone at last. I must say, the two of you made it just in time."

"_Get down off that throne_."

Gabrielle jumped at Caesar's iron voice. His tone was harsh and commanding; Gabrielle managed to wrench her attention away from Callisto long enough to see his face. His jaw was set, his dark eyes as hard as chunks of obsidian; his arms were folded across his chest. "That's _Xena's_ throne. _You_ have no right to it." In an intuitive leap, Gabrielle realized that Caesar was totally furious.

"_Xena's_ throne?" Callisto raised an eyebrow. "In case you hadn't noticed, Xena's _dead_," she said, her brown eyes gleaming, her voice sharp with what almost sounded like anger. "All that was hers is now mine. In fact, you could say, I'm Xena now." She gave that delicately edged smile. "How do you like _that…slave?_"

"You're not Xena and you _never will be,"_ Caesar retorted coldly. Gabrielle gasped.

"Shut up!" she hissed at him. She reached out to him, but he shrugged her hands off without so much as sparing her a glance.

Callisto, however, did not seem angered. "We'll see," was all she said, gently. She turned toward Gabrielle.

"Gabrielle," she said again. "I'm _so_ pleased you could make it. I stopped by your village when I was in the area, but I…guess I must have missed you." The Bright Warrior shook her head sorrowfully. The mention of Potedaia hit Gabrielle like a sword in the gut.

"What…." Her mouth was so dry she could barely speak; she swallowed and tried again. "What a-are you planning on doing with us?"

Callisto gave her bright, sharp smile. "All in good time, dear," she said. Nimbly, she rose to her feet and descended the steps of the throne. "All in good time. Walk with me," she said, indicating a passage to the right of the throne.

The Bright Warrior had turned her back on them, but the thought of attacking her never even crossed Gabrielle's mind; she had no weapon, and even if she had, she knew she was no match for Callisto. The story Joxer had told her so long ago about the deaths of his parents was at the forefront of her mind. As Callisto crossed the floor, Gabrielle glanced over at Caesar, finding herself edging closer to him unconsciously.

"What…." She hesitated, but the fear of the Bright Warrior was stronger than her antipathy for him, and pushed her over the edge. "What do we do?"

He met her gaze. They hadn't spoken since Salmoneus's caravan; she could see him considering whether or not to answer. After a moment he grimaced. "What _can_ we do?" he replied. "We follow her."

Callisto paused by the door and looked back over her shoulder at them; she dropped a wink. Caesar's mouth tightened, but he drew a breath, then started after her—then lurched to a halt, paling. He closed his eyes, muttering a curse; sweat stood out on his forehead. He looked over at Gabrielle, started to say something, then hesitated. At last he said, quietly, "Help me."

Gabrielle stared at him. It was almost a request—no, it _was_ a request. She had never heard this from him before. At last she took his arm and pulled it roughly across her shoulders. She hated to do it, but she did not want to face Callisto alone. When after a hesitation, he gave her a nod of thanks, Gabrielle almost dropped him, she was so stunned. _What…?_

"Come on," Callisto said, smiling brightly.

* * *

They followed Callisto down a dark, stone corridor. Like everything else Gabrielle had seen of this camp, it was untidy; dust lay thickly in the corners and cobwebs festooned the upper walls. The center down the passage alone was relatively clear; Gabrielle guessed because it was walked frequently.

They followed Callisto. The Bright Warrior's charisma was so strong it never even occurred to Gabrielle not to follow. She didn't even bother to keep her eye out for escape routes; what escape could there possibly be? Callisto kept glancing back at them as she led them with that delighted smile; it chilled Gabrielle to the bone. Caesar was still angry; she could practically feel it.

The passageway ended at a small wooden door. Callisto paused before it, smiling, and opened it, standing aside for them with mocking politeness. Gabrielle swallowed and stepped through it, with Caesar leaning on her—then froze, overwhelmed by an icy chill.

They had entered Callisto's private sleeping chambers.

The bedchamber, Gabrielle would realize after a few moments had passed, looked strangely like the room of a young girl. A bright fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, shedding light over the entire scene. The floor was carpeted, with a light pink rug that was deep and soft; across the room from the fireplace stood a large bed with a canopy hung with shimmering curtains, of the sort that might belong to a solstice-tale princess. The frilly furnishings looked so _wrong_ for the Bright Warrior—so wrong against the grim stone walls of the room, unadorned with any sort of hangings or tapestries—that the result was totally jarring.

The sense of dislocation became worse when Gabrielle looked closer. At first glance, everything looked bright and pretty. But there was a subtle sense of disrepair that spread throughout the room. The plush carpet was old, threadbare in many places, marked with scuffs and holes. The white posts of the bed had dented and chipped, the paint was peeling away in several spots, revealing dark, splintery wood underneath. The hangings were snagged and running, the counterpane on the bed fraying and coming apart. A doll sat in a rickety, splintering chair in front of the fireplace; Gabrielle saw that its wooden head was cracked, its face and body blackened and singed by fire; half of its long, blonde yarn hair had been burned away. The entire room emanated a sense of disorganization and disarray.

But that was not what caught Gabrielle's attention.

"_Xena…."_

The word was almost a choked sob. Gabrielle did not know whether she had said it or had Caesar. Or both of them at the same time.

Dominating the room, surrounded by hundreds of lit, burning candles and placed on a pedestal at the center of that fluffy pink carpet, was a large wooden sarcophagus. It was covered with gold leaf, the wood shining with rich oils where it was exposed, inlaid with precious jewels—a thing of beauty, and unlike the rest of the furnishings, in excellent condition. This coffin had been lovingly cared for. But Gabrielle scarcely noticed the jewels, the gleaming gold, the rare and expensive wood.

The lid of the coffin was carved in an _exact_ likeness of the Warrior Princess. Lying on her back, dressed in armor with her hands folded and her eyes closed, she appeared to be sleeping: the illusion was so strong that Gabrielle almost expected her to sit up and greet them. Every detail of her was carved perfectly, from the finely chiseled features to the long hair flowing over her shoulder plates—the hair was so exquisitely done that even individual strands were detailed. The firelight and candlelight flickered over the gleaming gold leaf, so that the image almost appeared to be breathing. Gabrielle felt tears prickle at the back of her lids.

"Xena…Oh, Xena…" she heard herself repeat distantly.

Suddenly her fear of the Bright Warrior vanished, buried beneath a rush of grief. She turned to look at Callisto and saw in her brown eyes, not the terrifying monster who had laughed as she had ordered Palaemon killed, but the stricken child who had knelt beside her—the child who had helped catch Xena's corpse in her arms, had flung back her head and shrieked out her pain at Xena's death, screaming again and again until her cries seemed as if they would split the heavens themselves.

"Xena…" Gabrielle said again, helplessly.

"It's her," Callisto confirmed softly. "She's in there. I had some of my Egyptians do the best they could, I had hoped….but they couldn't do what I had wanted. They're dead now," she added as an afterthought. "But it's all right, really, I think. The coffin—isn't the coffin beautiful?"

"Why are you showing us this?" Gabrielle accused, her throat almost closing with tears. "Why are you making us see this? _Why?_"

An odd tinge of hurt came into the Bright Warrior's face. "I thought you might like to see her again," she said quietly. "To say goodbye."

Gabrielle swallowed. She couldn't speak. Her mind was filled with the memory of the proud, beautiful, vibrant Dark Conqueror. She had only known her three days, yet even that short length of time had left such an impression on her—Xena had been so strong, so powerful…She had no answer for Callisto. She turned away and her gaze fell on Caesar.

Caesar was not looking at her, at Callisto or anyone. All his attention was fixed on the sarcophagus in the middle of the room. His jaw was tight, his dark eyes shadowed. Slowly, awkwardly, he pushed away from Gabrielle. Moving with careful, unsteady steps, he crossed the floor to the low dais on which the coffin rested, surrounded by candles.

Gabrielle couldn't take her eyes off him, but he could have been alone in the room. He reached the side of the sarcophagus, then slowly and painfully maneuvered himself down to a kneeling position. Gabrielle knew that it must have hurt him, but he gave no sign. He looked tired and strained; his eyes closed briefly, his brows knitting into a frown. There was something so intensely private in his demeanor that Gabrielle almost felt embarrassed to be there; she glanced quickly at Callisto, and saw to her surprise that the Bright Warrior was watching him with open sympathy in her warm brown eyes.

Presently Caesar sighed; his dark head bowed. The scars at his throat and wrists stood out in the firelight. "Xena," he murmured, speaking to the sarcophagus. Slowly, he reached out and touched the carved, wooden forehead with an odd gentleness. His touch trailed down her gilded cheek to rest briefly against her carved lips. "Xena," he repeated, and sat back on his heels, closing his eyes again.

"We're going," Callisto said softly, "to have a little chit-chat, the three of us. It's only right, I think. I have some plans for you both, but I felt it was only fair that you should get to see her again. After all, both of you loved her too."


	5. Chapter 5

"Why have you kept her?" Caesar looked over at Callisto sharply. "Why haven't you burned her or buried her or whatever the custom is that you Greeks practice? Don't you have any respect for the dead?" His voice was hot, but it was not the heat of anger; there was a strange, vibrant quality to his tone that Gabrielle had never heard from him before.

"I had to," Callisto replied. "I couldn't bear to let her go, not so soon. She took _everything_ from me. She was all I had left."

Caesar's mouth tightened as he looked at her. "All _you_ had?" His dark eyes seemed somehow darker, deeper in the light from the candles. He shook his head once, then lowered his gaze to Xena's carved form again.

"She was broken."

Gabrielle did not realize she had spoken aloud until she saw Callisto and Caesar look over at her. Not that it would have mattered anyway. She was not afraid anymore, though she knew she should be. The image of Xena was strong in her mind.

"She didn't look like it, but there was some part of her that…" Gabrielle mused. "She was almost as broken as you." She glanced at Callisto; the Bright Warrior said nothing, but a smile flickered at the edge of her lips, there and then gone. "I'd never met anyone like that before…She was broken and yet so—incredibly—_strong…_." Her voice trailed off. She could not find the words for what she wanted to say—there were no words that could capture Xena.

"As broken as _I_ am…." Callisto's brown eyes were as solemn as a little girl's at temple. Her face was shadowed, reverent. "Now who could have done that to Xena?" she said in a softly wondering tone, then glanced knowingly at Caesar and gave a small giggle.

Caesar seemed to sense it and looked up at the Bright Warrior, startled; Gabrielle, watching, was surprised to see that he did not smile or smirk as she had thought he might. He looked almost taken aback; he dropped his gaze, and Gabrielle could have sworn she saw him flush slightly. _What…?_

"You know, I never really thought I would kill her?" Callisto mused, resting her own eyes on the coffin. "I _said_ I would kill her. I planned for it, hoped for it, but I never really believed it would happen." She gave a small, reflective smile. "Deep down, I didn't even think she _could_ be killed."

"How could she be?" Caesar didn't look up from the carved image of Xena; his words were almost inaudible.

"She died for me." Gabrielle thought back to the duel she had witnessed between the Dark Conqueror and the Bright Warrior. They had seemed perfectly matched, each invulnerable, each invincible, coming together with flashes of light and darkness. "It was my fault she died…."

"Don't blame yourself, Gabrielle," Callisto's voice was almost maternal. "It was my stroke that killed her…and Xena wouldn't want you to feel guilty about it. I know she wouldn't." Callisto gently touched Gabrielle's shoulder in a gesture of reassurance.

"It's funny," the Bright Warrior mused again, looking at Xena's still image. "All this time, I wanted to kill her, and now that I have…." She trailed off. "What's the point? I thought killing her would make the pain go away. It didn't. It just made it worse. Before, at least I had her; now I have nothing at all." She looked at Gabrielle and Caesar, her brown eyes large and liquid. "Can you tell me?" she asked honestly. "Why go on? What is there left, without her?"

Caesar only shook his head slightly, looking down at Xena's image, touching the carved face again.

"She…she made you promise," Gabrielle volunteered. She didn't know if it was the right thing to say, but she had to say something—she was, despite everything, touched by the open and real suffering she saw in Callisto's face. "She made you promise to take the army after she was gone. To take the army, defeat—" Gabrielle faltered briefly "—defeat Najara, smash Ch'in…."

"She did," Callisto acknowledged. "She made me promise…Wasn't she something?" Again there was that sad smile. "She was almost a goddess."

"She was," Gabrielle agreed, and Caesar added quietly without looking up, "She was."

"I'd never met anyone like her before," Gabrielle repeated.

"There _are_ no others like her." Caesar said forbiddingly, glancing over at them. "There will never be another like her. _Ever._" He gave the Bright Warrior a hard look.

Callisto's lips curled. "We'll see," she said, her eyes sparkling; then the sparkle dulled. "Yes. She made me promise. I wish she hadn't. It would be so much easier to follow her. Can you imagine that—the two of us, burning side-by-side in Tartarus throughout eternity—together forever." She indicated Xena's gilded sarcophagus. "This isn't quite the same, somehow…."

Caesar glanced up at Callisto again; his dark eyes narrowed, but Gabrielle couldn't read the look in them. Gabrielle turned her gaze to the sarcophagus again and swallowed. The thought of Xena's remains lying unburned—denying the Daughter of War the rest that Gabrielle had sensed she wanted so dearly—hurt her. "How long…how long are you going to—" She couldn't finish.

"How long am I planning to keep her?" Callisto smiled. "Not much longer. Just until tomorrow, actually."

A feather-touch of unease tinged Gabrielle's sorrow. "What happens tomorrow?"

Callisto paused, examining Gabrielle searchingly. "I promised Xena something else, too, Gabrielle," she said. "Do you remember? We were holding her together in our arms when she said it."

Gabrielle did not answer. She only watched Callisto, feeling the seed of unease inside her start to flower.

"She asked me to take care of you. To protect you. I promised her—on my family, I promised her. And that's just what I'm going to do. Why do you think I've been looking for you all this time? You really shouldn't have run away, you know. "

"You're going to…take care…of me?" Far from relaxing her, that assurance on Callisto's part worried her more. She glanced over at Caesar to find him watching, his face unreadable. "What—what happens tomorrow?" she repeated, hearing her voice tremble.

Callisto tilted her head. The look on her face sent chills down Gabrielle's spine. "I'll tell you," she said gently. "I've given the orders for the preparations already. Tomorrow, I'm holding Xena's funeral feast, and you made it just in time."

"I…did?"

"Yes. It's going to be a barbecue. I'm going to do you a great honor, Gabrielle," she told her. "_You_ will have the honor…of joining Xena's body on her funeral pyre."

"_What?"_

Gabrielle couldn't breathe. Her sorrow vanished before the fear that spread through her. "You—you just said—You said you promised Xena you'd take _care_ of me—"

"I _am_ taking care of you." Callisto replied. Her voice was gentle, almost sad. "This world is really no place for someone like you. Xena knew it. And I know it too. Life is nothing but suffering and pain, Gabrielle," she said quietly. "I'm doing you a favor, if only you could see it that way. I'm sending you from the world while you still have a chance to preserve that innocence, that purity." She touched Gabrielle's hair. Gabrielle was too stunned to pull away.

"_Innocence?"_ She stared at Callisto stupidly. "You're going to _burn me to death_ to preserve my _innocence?_"

Callisto said nothing but nodded, that slight smile never leaving her lips.

Gabrielle heard herself laughing bitterly. Thoughts of Licinus and Artis rose in her mind of Stallonus, of her parents, of her rage at them, at Caesar, of everything she had gone through since leaving the encampment. She glanced over at Caesar; he simply watched, his expression inscrutable, his dark eyes as unreadable as obsidian. "My innocence. That's a good one. _What_ innocence?" she asked. "Let me tell you, whatever innocence you're talking about is _long_ gone by now—"

"No it isn't." Callisto spoke with quiet assurance. Her deep brown eyes seemed to be looking right into Gabrielle's soul, pulling her in, engulfing her. The madness there was suppressed; instead there was a strange empathy: sorrow and pain more profound than any Gabrielle had ever known. _She knows how I feel,_ Gabrielle realized suddenly. About Potedaia, about Xena, about Stallonus, Licinus, Artis, Athens…._She feels like I do. She hates the hell of this world as much as the rest of us…._

"No. It's not gone," Callisto repeated again, quietly. "You've lost a lot of it, yes, I can see that. But not all. Not yet." She touched Gabrielle's face again, with that maternal tenderness. "Xena told me: Don't let the light in her face go out," she said. "I won't. I'll protect it, I promise. It's what Xena would have wanted for you." Callisto paused. "I only wish I could go with you."

"Well you could," Gabrielle heard herself saying; her lips were numb, frozen. "You could go right now—"

Callisto shook her head, smiling again. "No. Not now. But soon, I think—very soon."

As the guards dragged her off, the last thing Gabrielle saw was Caesar watching her from the side of Xena's coffin, a strange glimmer in his dark eyes.

* * *

The guards dragged Gabrielle down long dark passages and a flight of twisting, uneven steps, to the dungeons underneath the fortress. These were a network of passageways with a row of bar-fronted cells deep underground, with tiny, narrow windows high up on the walls and lit by a single torch burning feebly—gloomy indeed, but somehow less disturbing than Callisto's little-girl bedroom that was coming apart at the seams. Gabrielle had no time to reflect on it; nor was she able to resist the guards. The long stresses and shocks of the day, combined with the revelation of the fate that awaited her, had drained her strength. As the door slammed shut, the footsteps of the guards faded in the distance. Gabrielle could only huddle on the ground where they had dropped her, shivering, a dull leaden sense of fatigue filling her.

_You have to get up. You _have_ to._ It was the same thing Caesar had said to her earlier. Useless to protest that she couldn't do it; her only other option was to lie there until they came to burn her to death. She got to her knees, then slowly to her feet.

_I have to find some way out of here_.

Gabrielle crossed the floor to the rusty iron bars that fronted the cell. She reached into her belt pouch and pulled out the lockpick she had fashioned two weeks ago, to get Stallonus out of chains. Thoughts about the impossibility of getting past Callisto's entire army outside wanted to surface. Gabrielle wouldn't let them. The first task was to get out of the cell, just get out of the cell. She'd worry about the guards after she had done that.

It was hard to see in the dim light from the single torch, but Gabrielle bent her head to examine the lock as best she could. What she saw made her heart sink. The lock was a heavy, sturdy thing, which even a quick look could tell her was far, _far _beyond her minor skills to pick. _I can't do it._

_You have to._ Probably she would fail, but at least she had to try. Gabrielle leaned down to look closely at the lock…

…only to snap upright again at the chuckle that came from the neighboring cell.

"Say, what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

Breathing hard, Gabrielle whirled from the lock to stare into the cell adjoining hers. Her pulse was racing. She had thought she was alone…had never thought to look for other prisoners.

"Who are you? _Where_ are you?"

"Right here."

Gabrielle stared into the shadows, straining her eyes to see through the darkness. As she stared, slowly she began to make out the outlines of a most extraordinary figure.

It was a man. He was dressed in a bluish-green tunic and breeches of a particularly fine material; it hadn't held up well to the rigors of prison. He had short, dark hair and merry brown eyes; a mustache and goatee added to the air of puckish mischief that surrounded him. He was chained to the wall opposite the barred doorway, but close enough to the bars separating their cells that she couldn't understand how she hadn't seen him before. He saw her looking at him and nodded. "Hiya."

"Who are you?" Gabrielle repeated again.

The man smiled. "Autolycus is the name, thieving's the game."

"Au—Autolycus?" She knew that name sounded familiar, but for a moment, Gabrielle's overstressed mind could not process the information; then it came to her. The stories she had learned in the bardic canon, the conversations with Jett…. "You're the King of Thieves," she whispered.

"The one and only. At your service, lady," he said with a rogueish grin. "You'll forgive me if I don't bow."

_The King of Thieves…_Of _course,_ she thought, wondering why she hadn't recognized him at once. The tales about this trickster had always been among her favorites in the bardic canon. She should have been more surprised. But after the grueling events of the day, her capacity for surprise seemed to be at an end. She could only stare at him numbly.

"What…what are you _doing_ here?" she whispered.

Autolycus looked pained. "It's a long story. The short version is that Callisto's men picked me up a while ago during a break-in at what used to be King Midas's palace."

"At….at King Midas's palace?" Gabrielle stared at him. "That place was overrun by Callisto a long time ago. What were you doing there?"

"Thieving, what else?" he asked impatiently. "Haven't you heard the stories about him?"

"Everything he touched turned to gold."

"Not exactly true. But close enough. I figured, a greedy old miser like him, there was no _way_ Callisto's men could have looted all his treasure; he'd have been sure to keep a secret stash somewhere, so I thought I'd try for it." He grimaced. "Big mistake."

"How did they get you?"

Autolycus grimaced again. "Let's just say I…got distracted….and leave it at that. Anyway, Callisto's men kept me with the army. From what they tell me, she appears to be saving me for something, I'm sure I don't want to know what. Have you met her?"

"Twice," Gabrielle said, shivering. "I don't want to meet her again, believe me."

"Smart girl." Autolycus eyed her with interest. "You're that bard she's been looking for—whatsername, Gabrielle—aren't you?"

"How did you know?" she asked him.

"Saw when they brought you in." He nodded toward the small window high up on the wall; he was at the end row of cells, and it was placed in the side wall where he would be able to see out of it, Gabrielle saw. "From this angle, I can see right up into the courtyard. That man Ravenica brought in with you—the cripple—he's Xena's bed-slave, isn't he? That's what I thought." At her questioning look, he nodded. "Oh, I've crossed paths with the Dark Conqueror before, believe me." His expression hardened.

"What happened?" Gabrielle whispered, chilled by his look.

"You don't want to hear any more about me," he said shortly. "Let's move on to more important things, like getting out of here. Is that a lockpick in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

"What?" Gabrielle looked at the lockpick she still held—she had been so distracted that she had forgotten about it briefly. "Yes, I—I was going to try to pick the lock on the cell, but I—"

"That's what I thought. Hand it over."

Gabrielle frowned at him. "Don't you have your own?"

"If they had let me keep my tools, do you really think I'd still be here?" He raised an eyebrow. "Hand it over," he repeated.

She stared at him. She took a step back. Jett's comments about him suddenly came to mind: _He wouldn't lift a finger to save a child from drowning unless there was something in it for him…._ "Why?" she asked suspiciously.

"_Why?_ Well, let's see. How about so we might actually be able to get _out_ of here? So you can escape the barbecue Callisto has planned for you and Xena? So that I can escape whatever doubtlessly unpleasant fate she has in store for me? Now come on and give it to me."

She watched him warily. "Will you let me out if I do?"

Autolycus looked hurt. "I'm starting to think that you don't trust me."

"I don't."

He smiled. "Smart girl. Give it here."

Gabrielle bit her lip. She thought of Stallonus and what had happened the last time she had tried to free a prisoner; she thought of Salmoneus, and the merry twinkle in his eye when he had told the guards to cut out her tongue if she spoke again. She curled her hand more tightly around the lockpick—her only chance, however slight, to get free. "Can you give me some reason to believe you when you say you'll free me?"

"Look at it this way," Autolycus said. "Unless you've got years and years of lockpicking experience that you're not sharing with me, there's no way you'll be able to pick _these_ locks yourself. You aren't going to be able to get out _unless_ you give me the lockpick, so you might as well take a chance."

Thinking it over, Gabrielle had to reluctantly agree with him. Even the slight examination she had given the lock to the cell door had shown that it was beyond her skill. With a nervous gulp, she reluctantly passed the pick through the bars to him. By stretching her arm out to its farthest extent, she could just put it in his chained hand.

"You'll free me right away afterward, right?" she asked him.

Autolycus grinned so that his eyes twinkled. "Of course I will, kiddo. You won't regret it."

* * *

Caesar watched the door through which the guards had taken the bard. The strange thought occurred to him that it was the first time they had been separated since she had freed him from Xena's encampment—the first time their fates had been separated. In fact, she was going to the fate that Xena had had planned for him.

_If our fates truly _are_ separated._ He still didn't know what Callisto had in store for him.

"You didn't have to do that," he heard himself say. "There's no reason to have her burned to death. Xena didn't want her harmed." Distantly he wondered why he had said it; he was risking angering Callisto for the sake of that ridiculous blonde girl.

Yet Xena had cared for her. And she had helped him. He looked down again at Xena's sarcophagus. It had been well-carved; there was almost the hint of a smile playing around her lips—an expression far more gentle than he had seen her wear in life.

"I am not harming her," Callisto said. He glanced up to see the twin of that smile on the lips of the Bright Warrior. "I'm giving her a gift—the gift of oblivion."

Caesar spared a moment to wonder at Callisto's strange definition of harm. "And what will you do with me?" His voice was dry, emotionless. He knew that he should be apprehensive—he recognized that he was potentially in very serious danger—yet somehow he felt nothing. It was as if his heart were filled with ashes; he had no will or desire to do anything but sit beside the sarcophagus, looking at the carved features of Xena.

"Do you know why I wanted you…._slave?_"

_Slave._ He felt himself twitch as if stung. Xena had always called him _slave_, and he had hated it then; yet to hear Callisto say it was worse. He looked up to see a sharp grin cross her lips. When she spoke, it was with a strange combination of empathy and something else he could not name.

"I wanted you because you would understand," she said. "That little bard….She didn't _know_ Xena, not the way we do. You're different. She had you as her slave for five years. You know what it's like to miss her." Callisto paused and studied his face; he had no idea what she was seeing there. "Don't you?" she asked softly. "You wake up and she's not there, you go to sleep and she's not there….you hear something that sounds like her and for one moment, just one moment you think she's back before you remember…."

"That she'll never be there again."

He hadn't intended to speak, didn't feel the words as his. The candlelight flickered; he watched the play of it over Xena's gilded features. "She's gone, and there's nothing left in life that can equal _her…._"

"See?" Callisto said. She gave that two-edged smile again. "I knew _you_ would understand."

The firelight flickered, flickered; it looked almost as if the image of Xena were breathing. He knew that if he touched her, he would find her cheek was cold, dead. "At least you got to kill her."

Callisto's voice fell on his ears like gentle rain. "I may have had her death," he heard her say, "but you had her love."

_Her **love**_?

He stared at Callisto stupidly, trying to work through what she had said. It sounded so _wrong_ to him it was almost as if she had said something in the language of Ch'in. It had not been love between them. That had been one illusion that Xena had emphatically not permitted him to keep. She had taken him to her bed to demonstrate to him clearly and in the most direct way possible that she held all the power and he had none. It had been so far from being love that sometimes, especially during the first year, he had felt physically ill as he had lain beside her afterwards. Not that he had been able to resist her, then or ever.

"It wasn't about love." Xena's face was as perfect and beautiful as it had ever been in life. He had seen her sleeping, and the carven image was the same. His eyes were dry and burning. "She had no love for me."

"You're wrong, slave."

Callisto's voice was absolute. She came to stand beside the coffin, joining him and looking down at Xena's face; her slender hand reached out and stroked Xena's carved wooden hair. "You're _so_ wrong," she repeated quietly. "Xena loved you a great deal. She loved you very much more than you realize. Perhaps even more than _she_ realized." She looked at his expression and smiled. It was not a kind smile. "She loved you, in exactly the same way as I love her."

Caesar stared at her in confusion. "No. You're the one who's wrong. She hated me."

"Hate, love—why quibble over words? Really they're just two faces of the same coin." Seeing his expression, she touched Xena's face, then raised an eyebrow. "How could she _not_ love you?" she asked him. "You _made_ her. Just as she made me. Without you, she would never have been more than just another pirate….and without her, I'd be a village girl, safe in the arms of my family." Her voice sharpened with a peculiar bitter envy.

He would have protested at that point, but Callisto held up a hand. "You may have spent years with her, but I _am_ her. Her life and mine are the same. We're mirror images of each other—you of _all_ people should know that…. No, slave. I have her horse, and her army, and her chakram; I had her death…but I never had her love. You had that, not me."

That bitter envy was back in her voice; then she smiled, a strange, secretive smile. "You had her love….and now, I have you."

Startled, he turned and looked at her. Callisto's eyes were large and dark, luminous in the light from the candles. Her face was as solemn as a child's. Her eyes were drawing him in, engulfing him. Slowly, slowly, she reached out to touch him.

Anger surged within him and without thinking, he struck her hand away.

"_You're not Xena,"_ he said harshly.

He knew it for a mistake at once. The Bright Warrior's eyes lit, filling with the manic glee that had terrified so many thousands. Her smile grew bright and hard and keen as a knifeblade.

"_Neither are you."_

The words were a hiss. She was on him. She pounced with the speed of a striking snake, that terrifying grin sparkling in her eyes, broad and bright and insane. She was fast, so fast he could barely believe it, and strong out of all proportion to her wiry frame. Her hands locked around his throat and she slammed him to the floor. He was struggling to throw her off, but she was five places at once, and it was like fighting a wildcat, all hissing, clawing, snarling fury; he could make no defense against such an assault, could barely even come to grips with what was happening. She was too much for him. He could barely breathe. The force of her presence appalled him.

They descended into a red thrashing darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

The candles around Xena's sarcophagus had burned low, casting pools of darkness over the room, by the time Callisto rose from the bed. Careless and taunting, her voice fell like rain: "Is _that_ all you've got, slave? Well, well…what _did_ Xena ever see in you?"

The object of her address made no response, lying limply among the bed's silken covers. Only the long, rasping, tortured sound of his breathing told that he still lived. Callisto glanced back at his motionless form. A teasing smile flickered across her face, there and then gone.

"I would have expected more of the one who managed to hold the interest of the Dark Conqueror….Well, if _that's_ all you've got then I have no further use for you, slave. You can join your mistress and her little friend on her funeral pyre tomorrow. _Guards!"_ Her voice rang in the confines of the chamber. The door opened at the sound of her voice. "Take _that_ away. Confine him to the dungeon until tomorrow's festivities. We wouldn't want him to miss the big day."

He did not react. Perhaps he could not, anymore. Callisto's eyes gleamed as the guards hauled his battered body from her chamber.

* * *

"Success!"

Gabrielle, who had been keeping watch down the corridor, looked up at Autolycus's claim; it was followed by a loud snapping sound from the lock of the door he had been working on. "Did you get it?" she asked.

"Sure did. Went pretty quickly there at the end, too." The King of Thieves stepped back and gave the barred door to the cell a push; it swung open with a screech and a shower of rust flakes. He stepped out of the cell into the corridor beyond. "You made this yourself?" he asked, holding the lockpick up to the light from the dim and sputtering torch.

"Yes, out of a piece of wire," Gabrielle said. "Now you're going to open my cell, right?"

Autolycus was still examining the pick. "This is not bad. Better than my first one, in fact. Pretty nifty implement." He tested the pointed end with a finger. "Would work better if this end was the slightest little bit hooked, though."

"I'll keep it in mind," Gabrielle leaned against the bars of her cell. "You're going to free me now, right?" she repeated anxiously.

He lifted his head and looked at her. In that moment, Gabrielle's heart sank. Autolycus's brown eyes went as flat and hard as glass. "Wrong," he said matter-of-factly. "Sorry, Gabrielle. I need to get out of here, and you'd simply be in the way. You'd wind up getting us both caught." He lifted the pick again and with a flourish, vanished it up his sleeve. "Later," he said, and turned his back on her.

_This can't be happening…_ But with a sinking sense of despair, Gabrielle knew only too well that it could. If her own parents could turn their backs on her, if her friend could hold a dagger to her throat, if the man she had protected and killed for could strike her and turn her in, why had she ever thought that a stranger would lift a finger for her?

"You said you'd _help_ me!"

Autolycus glanced back at her. "So I did. Here's a thought: I lied," he said with a shrug. "Tough luck, kiddo."

_I knew it. I_ knew_ it! I knew he was going to do this—why did I ever trust him? How could I ever have thought he would help me? _ She could have kicked herself out of fury at her own stupidity. _As_ he started down the corridor she shouted after him, "At least leave me the lockpick so I can have a _chance! Please—_"

"No can do," he replied over his shoulder as he walked away. "The guards took all my other tools. I might need this to get out of the castle. Sorry."

"_Please!_ They're going to _burn me to death _tomorrow!" She was almost sobbing from terror, frustration and helpless rage. "There must be _something_ you can do for me! You _have_ to help me—"

He stopped. As if struck by a thought, he turned back toward her. _I've reached him,_ Gabrielle thought. _Please gods, I've reached him—_

But she hadn't. The King of Thieves frowned briefly, as if ordering his thoughts; he came no closer. At last he said, "I'll tell you what I _can_ do for you, Gabrielle. You seem like a clever enough girl, and I think it's not _entirely_ impossible that you could manage to figure another way out of here. So on the off chance that you do, I'm going to give you a piece of advice. It's a good one—one that I wish to the _gods_ someone had given me when I was your age. It would have saved me yea grief." His voice was suddenly thick with an unexpected depth of emotion.

"The man they brought you in with—Xena's slave. Caesar." He gestured toward the window in his cell, the one from which he had said he could see the courtyard. "Even from the little I saw, I could tell that he was clearly deadweight. It was because of him that Callisto's men were able to catch you, wasn't it? He was a cripple. He was clinging to you and slowing you down. There's only one thing to do with deadweight like that." Autolycus paused then, to give his words weight. His eyes were flat and cold as ice. "Scrape 'em off."

"Scrape….scrape him off?"

"If you want to save somebody, save yourself." His voice was iron-hard. And with that, he turned and walked off.

Leaving. He was leaving her, just like everyone else she had counted on. Gabrielle stared after his retreating back, desperately racking her brain, trying to think of any form of appeal that could reach him, that could convince the King of Thieves….

"_Treasure!"_ she shouted after him. "_Treasure, Autolycus! I know where there's treasure!"_

Again, he stopped in the middle of the corridor. Gabrielle watched with bated breath, afraid to say anything more lest it tip his mind the other way. After a long moment, he turned toward her.

"Aww, you said the 'T' word." That puckish grin was back in place; but as he approached her cell, Gabrielle did not miss the cold gleam in those twinkling brown eyes. He walked up to her but stopped just out of her reach. "All right, you've got my attention. I'm listening, but talk quickly," he warned.

"You said—you said Callisto's men caught you trying to rob King Midas's palace," she said. "Well, I know where he kept his greatest treasure, and I can tell you where it is."

"Uh-huh." Autolycus eyed her with patent skepticism. "And just how would _you_ know something like _that?_"

"I'm a bard," Gabrielle said quickly. "I've heard all the stories. I can take you right to the place—but only if you let me out of here."

Autolycus looked at her for a long time, irresolute. Gabrielle held his eyes, remembering to herself that she wasn't lying; she could do what she said. "All right," he said at last. "You tell me where the treasure is, and I'll let you out of here."

She was shaking her head even before he had finished his sentence. "_Oh_ no. Not a chance. _You_ open the cell and get me safely out of the stronghold and _then_ I tell you where it is. Otherwise—not a word."

He stared at her. A reluctant smile of admiration crossed his face. "You're a quick learner. I like that. All right, I'll do it." He pulled the lockpick—_her_ lockpick, she thought bitterly—out of his sleeve. "_But,"_ he told her, looking at her hard as he bent over the lock. "You're going to have to keep up with me. If you get lost or get caught or in trouble, I'm not coming back to get you."

She could see in his eyes that he absolutely meant what he was saying. After a moment, she nodded. "Fair enough."

"Good." He worked at the lock for a bit in silence, until it sprang open. "There we go. Come on," he said, and turned on his heel at once.

He was halfway down the corridor by the time she stepped out of the cell.

* * *

Autolycus moved at a swift pace, and Gabrielle had to take two steps to match every one stride of his longer legs. He led her through a maze of twisty passages, all alike, without ever stopping once to glance back to see if she was following. There was a stitch in Gabrielle's side and her hair was in her face by the time he stopped at an intersection; as she leaned against the wall, catching her breath, Autolycus looked left and right, seeming to debate the best way to go.

"How do you remember the way out?" Gabrielle asked him.

"Memorized the way the guards brought me in, of course." He looked at her. "Didn't you?"

"Didn't think to."

"It's a trick of the trade, Gabrielle. If you're going to get thrown into dungeons, you need to learn these little secrets." He gestured. "This way."

Gabrielle scurried after him. She had long since discarded the ornate robes Callisto had left her; heavy and hampering, they had slowed her down. They passed by rows of empty cells without so much as a second glance; Autolycus quickened his pace to the point where Gabrielle almost had to run to keep up with him. _Almost out…we're almost out,_ she kept telling herself; she was sure that was why he was hurrying like this.

They were drawing near the end of the corridor when Gabrielle touched Autolycus on the shoulder. "Wait—there's someone in one of the cells next to the stairs." She gestured to where a huddled form crouched on the stone floor, in shadows and moonlight coming in from the window. "Do we worry about him?"

"No," Autolycus said shortly. "A guard could be along soon. Come on, we have to go."

"But he might—" she began, then stopped short. Having apparently heard them talking, the prisoner slowly raised his head and looked at them, turning his face into the moonlight.

"By the gods…." she whispered.

"Something wrong?" Autolycus asked her.

Gabrielle couldn't answer. The prisoner was Caesar.

He had been _mauled._ That was the first thought that came to her shocked mind. His face was so bruised, battered and bloody that he was almost unrecognizable. He huddled on the ground in an oddly slumped posture, with his arms wrapped around himself; it looked as he were fighting the pain of one or more cracked ribs. His left arm was drawn up to his chest in a strange way; she wondered if his shoulder had been dislocated. His breath hissed harsh and rasping, and in the moonlight Gabrielle could see dark bruising around his throat, above the scarring there, giving evidence that he had been savagely choked.

Only those dark eyes were the same. They moved, and found her.

"G—" He stopped and swallowed. "Gabrielle." Those damaged features contorted, and she realized suddenly that he was trying, painfully, to smile.

Autolycus was at her shoulder suddenly. "Come on," he said, his tone harsh. "We need to get out of the stronghold."

"Autolycus—it's Caesar," Gabrielle pled, gripping him by the arm. "They brought me in with him—"

"_That's_ Caesar?" The King of Thieves's shock was evident in his face. "Poor bastard," he said offhandedly, then, "I don't care if it's Xena herself that's locked in that cell. If Callisto's men catch us, they'll do the same to us. I'd rather not go through that."

"Just give me a minute, Autolycus. _Please."_

He looked at her, then glanced up the hallway. "All right, but make it quick," he said, glaring at her. Gabrielle turned her attention back to Caesar. Those dark eyes had locked on her.

"What happened to you?" she breathed, appalled by the damage done to him. She had never seen anyone so battered before who had lived, and in spite of everything, it twisted her heart.

"C-Callisto. She…." He broke off with a wince. His harsh breathing hitched, and Gabrielle winced too, feeling his pain. "You have to…have to get me out of here. She's going to—going to burn me to death tomorrow. With Xena. She—" He coughed once, and then swallowed again; Gabrielle could see blood glistening darkly on his lips. "Please, Gabrielle. Get me out of here. Help—" He stopped. Again, his damaged face twisted in what she guessed was an attempt at a smile of appeal. "Help me?"

"Autolycus—" She turned toward the King of Thieves, but he was already shaking his head.

"Nope. It'll take too long to free him, he can't walk and we can't carry him. We leave him where he is."

"But—" Gabrielle bit her lip. Caesar's dark eyes clung to her, appealing. The idea of leaving someone, _anyone_ behind to face Callisto's wrath…. "Callisto will _burn_ him to death—"

"Better him than us." Autolycus's eyes were ice cold. "_Come on."_

Gabrielle caught his sleeve. "Autolycus, _please—"_

"_Gabrielle."_ Autolycus shook himself free roughly. "Listen and listen good: _I am not going to wait for you._ You can come with me and escape, or stay here and _try_ to free your friend. But I can guarantee you, your chances of success are nil. So here are your choices." He gave her a hard stare, looking directly into her eyes. "Come with me and live. Or stay behind and die. It's entirely up to you."

_It's up to you._ Gabrielle stared at Caesar, at those dark eyes desperate in that ravaged face. She realized distantly that in a way they had come full circle; the two of them were right back where they had started, over a month ago in Xena's encampment, with him the prisoner and she about to escape.

_Help me…_.How many times had he said that to her? She remembered Brutus's words: _Others have helped him before. And paid for it with their lives._ What Caesar himself had said to her, in that small nameless inn: _Surely you know I would never help you the way you've been helping me._ His selfish, pitying rant the night he had gotten drunk The anger of the Roman mob that had captured them. _Innocence makes you a victim. Get rid of it as fast as you can._ The death of Licinus, and the way he had hounded her to kill him. Minya's despair in Laurel, and his words: _You insisted that we stay here and try to _help_ these people. Are you happy now?_ The tent in Najara's encampment: _You shouldn't have saved me. It wasn't any of your business. _Najara's: _How much does one life signify?_ and Stallonus's bitter laugh: _Everyone does what they have to. Nobody ever does anything else._ Her mother and father, eyes dead in the flat light of the candle in Potedaia, and Lila's voice, absolutely sure: _If you were in our place, you'd do the exact same thing._ Caesar's dark eyes, cold with satisfaction, his cruel words in the stable afterward—His betrayal in the slaver caravan. _The bard Gabrielle? She's right there._ Images tumbled through her mind, fast and faster, Najara, Tara, Lila, Stallonus, her mother and father; the ashes of Athens, of Rome, of Potedaia, the exhausted looks in the eyes of the villagers of Laurel, the despair of the refugees gathered around the forge near Rome.

As she stood there looking into Caesar's desperate, pleading eyes, all she had experienced over the past month and a half coalesced into one thought:

_Scrape 'em off. If you want to save someone, save yourself._

She drew herself up, turned and looked over at Autolycus. "Let's go."

Caesar's dark eyes had widened; she thought she saw a flash of what looked like panic in them. He started to say something in that harsh, rasping whisper—to plead, to beg, to accuse—but Gabrielle paid him no heed. He could have been a total stranger. It was the easiest thing in the world to simply walk away.

She could see it all so clearly now. After all she had seen, all she had done since escaping with Caesar from Xena's encampment, it was as if the scales had finally fallen from her eyes. She was amazed at the clarity of her vision. _It's all true. Compassion is for fools. Innocence makes you a victim. Pity and kindness are nothing but signs of weakness. Love is powerless in the face of hate._ She couldn't believe that it had taken her so long to realize it; now that she had, she would never, ever again allow herself to be swayed by such delusions.

In some other world she might have saved him. In another world, where kindness and altruism were valued and rewarded and not met with mockery and theft, where warlords did not try to burn you to death to preserve your innocence, where friends did not sell you out for gold or hold daggers to your throat when you tried to help them, where parents did not slam the door in the face of their exhausted and frightened daughters…in some other time, in some other place, in some other world, in some other life….

Gabrielle's jaw set. Her heart felt hard and cold within her.

_In some other life,_ she thought. _Not in this one._

_

* * *

_

Autolycus climbed a staircase, took two more turns down apparently random corridors, and crept stealthily down a covered walkway that turned out to lead to the stables. "Horses," he murmured to her as she looked at him questioningly. The interior was dim and straw-smelling, filled with the quiet breathing of horses. The moon shone, cold and distant, through a grate high on the wall. "We'll need mounts if we're to make a clean escape. Look for my horse—brown with black stockings."

"Argo?" Gabrielle whispered back. "Callisto will probably burn her tomorrow."

"We don't know where she is and she's likely heavily guarded. There's no point trying to save her. Find a new horse."

"All right." Gabrielle nodded once. She turned and went down the long line of stalls, each with its own whickering occupant. The stalls were not in much better condition than the rest of the castle, she saw; the straw in many of them was filthy, the food and water low. Many of the horses were off color, looking dull and listless. She looked them over quickly, trying to judge which was the healthiest.

"Found him. Third from the end." Autolycus's voice at her shoulder made her start a bit. "You see any you like?"

"I like this one." The horse Gabrielle indicated was the largest horse there, a stallion; unlike many of the other horses, he was in prime condition, with a glossy black coat, sparkling hooves, and a mane and tail that almost seemed to shine. His eyes were clear and bright. He was heavily secured in the stall, with ropes binding his fetlocks to the floor and his halter attached to the wall by an almost brutally short chain.

Autolycus leaned in to take a look at him, then drew back. "No. Don't take that one." At her questioning look, he gestured. "See how he's tied?" He indicated the bonds. "There's only one reason to tie a horse like that. It means he's vicious, a brute. Maybe even a mankiller."

"He doesn't look so bad to me." Gabrielle took a step closer. She presented her hand. The horse whiffled at it gently.

"Let me try." Autolycus presented his hand, then jerked it back, just in time to avoid losing a finger as the horse snapped at him. Its eye showed white. Gabrielle smiled.

"I like him. I'm going to take him."

Autolycus turned to look at her. "Fine, but if you fall off or he kills you, that's your own lookout." He pulled a dagger and tossed it to her. "Here."

She caught it by the hilt. "What's this for?"

"Protection. I'm going to take care of a few things. While I'm gone, I want you to get the horses ready. If someone comes—" He indicated the dagger. "Hide in the shadows and knife him in the back. Aim for the kidneys. You know where those are?"

Gabrielle nodded. "I had training as a healer."

"Good. That'll put him down silently, and silence is important. Can you do that if you have to?" His tone said she had better be able to. Gabrielle nodded.

"No problem."

"I'll be back shortly."

While he was gone, Gabrielle saddled the horses—using the dagger to cut her chosen horse free; he stood as solid and silent as an old gelding as she did this. Autolycus's horse was a skittish, lathe-thin beast who sidestepped and whickered at her; she wondered how horse and rider could tolerate each other. After a short while, Autolycus was back.

"All right," he told her without preamble, turning up at her shoulder; again, she started. "It's done. The guards at the side gate won't notice an entire army marching through, and all it took was one carefully-placed skin of drugged wine. We're ready to go." He indicated the horses. "Everything go well here?"

"Not so much as a peep," Gabrielle answered.

"Good." He eyed her appraisingly, then took the reins of his horse. "Good job," he told her. "Let's go."

* * *

It was all as easy as Autolycus had said; they walked the horses out of the side gate, right under the noses of the sleeping guards in the guard house. "Won't Callisto hurt them when she finds out what happened?" Gabrielle asked him.

"Their problem, not ours," Autolycus said with a shrug. "Look at it this way: they shouldn't have been drinking on duty in the first place." He raised an eyebrow. "You ever hear the saying that you can't cheat an honest man? Something Rafe the King Con told me once; the same principle applies."

Gabrielle nodded. "All right," she said. Her horse flicked his ears and whickered briefly, then snapped viciously at Autolycus's horse. Gabrielle reached out and rubbed his crest, liking him already.

"Good horse," she told him. Autolycus scowled at her.

They rode for what seemed like hours, down the long and winding main road at first, and then onto side paths that branched off from the main highway. Autolycus seemed to find these by instinct; he would turn his horse into a dip in the foliage that looked like nothing at first, but that would turn out to be an almost entirely hidden new way. They rode up hills, down valleys, tracing and retracing their steps, until Gabrielle was scarcely certain which way was up anymore, let alone where they were. _Callisto will never be able to find us after this._

It felt as if they had been riding forever, but the moon was still high in the sky when Autolycus called a halt. He said, "We still have a long way to go, but we'll rest here for a bit." As Gabrielle dismounted and let the horses to graze, Autolycus slipped off into the undergrowth; he returned a short while later with a sack under one arm.

"Here." He pulled a loaf of bread out from the sack and tore it in half; he tossed one half to her. "Provisions," he said cheerfully.

Gabrielle took her half. Cheese followed from the sack, and smoked sausages, and a small flask of wine. "How'd you get these?"

The King of Thieves raised an eyebrow. "How do you think?" He bit into the sausage. "There's a small farmhouse not too far from here. The window to their storeroom wasn't locked in any serious way."

"They might need that food," Gabrielle observed.

Autolycus shrugged. "If they need it that much they should make sure it's better protected. That lock was so crude a five-year-old could have picked it. It's not our fault if others can't take better care of their belongings." He gestured at the bread she held. "Eat up."

Gabrielle nodded. She bit into the loaf of bread. "Makes sense."

Autolycus lowered himself onto a boulder sticking up out of the ground. "All right." He faced her. "We're out of the stronghold and far enough away that Callisto won't find us any time soon. I've kept my end of the bargain. Now it's your turn."

"My turn?"

"King Midas's greatest treasure. You said you knew where it was. Let's hear it."

"Oh. Right." Gabrielle swallowed a mouthful of cheese. "In the throne room. There's a staircase to the left of the throne. Go up the staircase, down the hall to the left, and into the last door on the end."

Autolycus frowned, murmuring to himself; he seemed to be tracing a map in the air. "That leads to Midas's private apartments." He looked at her in confusion.

"Right." Gabrielle nodded; then smiled with what she hoped was just the right degree of impudence. "His family—his greatest treasure."

She held his eyes, keeping that grin. Autolycus stared at her for a long, long moment, his mouth twitching, then burst into startled laughter. "Pretty good, kid," he said when he'd calmed down. "It's not every day someone puts one over on the King of Thieves. Pretty good." His tone was amused and admiring at once.

"Good enough for you to take me on as your new partner?" Gabrielle asked, not losing that grin.

Autolycus studied her appraisingly. "I'm listening," he said.

"I'm a bard," Gabrielle began. "I can provide a handy diversion for you by telling stories and singing songs. I have a legitimate profession that can earn us money when pickings are scarce, and as a bard, I can get access to the courts of noblemen and women for you. I have a lot of knowledge of treasure hoards from bardic tales, and I can point out possibilities you might miss on your own. I'm good at persuading people, and can plead for you if you ever get caught. I'm a good listener, and people are willing to tell bards things that they often don't share with others. Last but not least, I'm another pair of eyes to keep watch and another pair of hands to help. Just train me to be as good of a thief as you are. That's all I'm asking." She paused. "Well, that and half the cut." And she grinned again.

The King of Thieves burst out laughing again, startled. "You're really something, kiddo," he said admiringly. "And I have been considering taking an apprentice lately….All right. I'll take you on." He paused. "For thirty percent."

"Fifty."

"Thirty-five."

"At least forty-five, or I won't share with you anything I earn as a bard."

"I could just take it, you know," he said, grinning.

"I would love to see you try."

"Forty. Consider the five percent your apprenticeship fee, and you get first pick of anything you steal."

Gabrielle thought about it. "All right," she said finally. "Done." She held out her hand, but Autolycus pulled away.

"Before we shake on it, let me tell you my rules. They're very simple." He looked at her. "You get caught, you're on your own. You slow me down, I leave you. You fall behind, I leave you. And if, the gods forbid, I catch you stealing from me or even worse, selling me out—" His tone grew flat, and his eyes went ice-cold. "I leave you. In pieces. Understand?"

Gabrielle nodded. "Fair enough," she said again. This time when she held out her hand, Autolycus took it.

"Welcome aboard," he said with a smile. "Now eat up. We've still got a long way to go tonight."

A short while later, they set out, down the dark and winding road, under the light of the cold and distant moon.

* * *

"_In the dull twilight of the winter afternoon she came to the end of the long road which had begun the night Atlanta fell. She had set her feet upon that road…an untried girl, full of youth, warm of emotion, easily bewildered by life. Now, at the end of the road, there was nothing left of that girl. She had become…a woman who had seen the worst, and so had nothing else to fear."_

—Margaret Mitchell, _Gone With The Wind_


	7. Chapter 7

Alone in his cell, Caesar huddled on the stones of the floor. There was nothing left for him to do, but wait.

Every part of his body hurt. Pain stabbed into his side at each breath. His mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood; he thought he had lost a tooth, maybe more than one, but it hurt too much for him to be sure. His arm felt strangely numb; it didn't seem to be working right. Xena at her worst had never damaged him this badly. Such injuries would take months to heal.

He had hours left. At best.

That bard Gabrielle was gone. She had abandoned him to his fate, and so he had lost his only chance of escape. There was no other way out, and no hope left to him. Tomorrow at dawn, Callisto would burn him to death, on Xena's funeral pyre. Xena had decreed it so. He had escaped it once before, when that bard had saved him. There was no one to save him this time.

_How had it come to this?_

Had this….had this been his destiny all along?

No. _No._ The remains of his pride stirred within him dimly. He had long since given up the idea that he had been destined to rule the world, but he _refused_ to believe that it had always been his fate to die here in this filthy camp at the hands of a madwoman. He wouldn't believe that. He couldn't.

_But how could this have been averted?_

_Rome,_ he thought dimly. It was the same question he had asked himself, over and over again, about the destruction of Rome. Somehow, as he huddled in a heap on that cold, stone floor, in more agony than he had ever been and with nothing to do but wait for his death at dawn, his mind was drawn back to this question. He was somehow convinced that if he could find the answer, the other question—how he could have averted his death at Callisto's hands—would be answered as well. _What was it?_ What was the similarity?

The question was like a puzzle box Xena had shown him once, a gift from Lao Ma, the empress of Ch'in. _See, slave?_ she had said, holding it up. _Look what Lao Ma sent me. Isn't it nice?_

He had spared it a sullen glance. _I don't care._

_Now, slave,_ she had told him, smiling a small, secret smile. _Just because you're jealous is no reason to be rude. See, look—the object is to make all the sides line up together._

_It can't be done,_ he had said, interested despite himself; the object in Xena's hands was a misshapen tangle of blocks, and he could not see how it could ever be solved.

_Easily. See? There's a trick to it—one simple catch, and…._ She turned it over, examining it. Before his eyes, the unsolvable tangle reduced, its sides lining up neatly into coherent shapes. _Just that simple, once you know the secret._

_Just that simple._ The pain fell away from him. The fear for the dawn fell away from him, the walls of the cell, the bars, everything. Right then, finding the answer to the question of Rome seemed like the most important thing in the world. His mind worked at it, worked at it, turning it over from every angle, focusing on it like salvation. This was his last chance, now, on the last night of his life. If he did not answer this question now, he would never find the answer.

_Could the destruction of Rome have been prevented?_

Najara had told him that surrendering himself would have changed nothing, that by then it had already been too late. So his surrender could not have done it. Could he possibly have defeated Xena on the battlefield if he had done something differently?

_No._ He knew the answer to that almost before he had formulated the question. No army, no general born could have defeated the all-powerful goddess that had brought her limitless horde to march on Rome. Only Callisto, or Najara, and he knew now only too well that he was not their equal; Callisto had pounded that into his bones with a force that made him cower to think of it. No power, mortal or immortal, could have turned aside the wrath of the Dark Conqueror. No, the chance to avert the destruction of Rome would have had to have been earlier.

He closed his eyes, grinding his teeth together, heedless of the pain in his damaged jaw. _The ship_. It all kept coming back to the ship. That had been his chance—his only chance. If he had not betrayed her there—if he had not crucified her and left her for dead—

_But how could he have known?_

That was the sticking point, the place beyond which he could not see another path. It was a stone wall, stopping his train of thought dead in its tracks. She had been just another pirate back then, he repeated to himself helplessly, as he had so many times before. If he had had the slightest inkling of the titanic force she would one day become, he would have pulled her to him and never let her go, not ever. _What an empress she would have made…._ He couldn't have known. He never would have betrayed her, if he had only _seen…_

_You couldn't have known. Some excuse. You'd have done the same thing if she were a _goddess,_ and I'm not so sure she isn't._

The memory of Pompey's words caught him, made him frown slightly, unaware of it. _That's not true,_ he told himself. He would never have betrayed her—

Would he have?

His cracked rib was stabbing into his side, but he barely felt it. His twisted, broken legs ached where they pressed against the stones of the cell, but they could have been in another world. All his attention was focused on the question, as he strove to remember his thoughts of ten years gone.

It had seemed so obvious, he remembered, thinking back to the tossing boat deck, the spray of the salt wind. It had been purely a policy decision. He had to make an example of her. It was as he had told the bard—he'd _had_ to. She had thought she could challenge Rome. He had to demonstrate the consequences for crossing Rome's path to all who might dare consider it. He had even warned her he would, after a fashion, had warned….

Yet as he thought that, Pompey's words suddenly came back to him:

_You never could leave well enough alone, could you, when your goddamn ego was involved….You had to go back and kill her. Not just kill her, _conquer_ her, isn't that right? Because that's what she did to you. No one conquers Caesar. Gods, do you even realize how _stupid_ that sounds? _

_You arrogant bastard._

His resistance collapsed. It was true. He couldn't even pretend otherwise. Whatever he might have told himself, his crucifixion of Xena had been nothing less than sheer arrogance.

_Arrogance._

It was as if he had been blind since birth, and then, at that moment, started to see. The clarity of what he saw stunned him.

It was just as Pompey said—just as everyone had been telling him all along. His pride—his ego—his arrogant sense of his own destiny and place in history, had led him to make the biggest mistake of his life. And this mistake had cost him everything, including that destiny itself. _More than that_, he realized dizzily. It had led him to hurt _her_. Xena.

_She was broken,_ that bard had said, and he knew it for truth. _Now who could have done that to Xena?_ That was one question to which he had always known the answer.

He remembered the expression on Xena's face, the night he had come back to her—open, eager and trusting. She'd thought that he was coming back to fulfill his promises—to take her to wife, to conquer the world with her. And he had repaid her….That was one look she'd never given him again.

He had broken her. He saw that clearly now, and the thought did not fill him with satisfaction as it might have once. It was as if he were standing outside himself, seeing his actions for the first time as others might have seen them, and it made him writhe. He had used Xena—_Xena!_—callously and tossed her aside, secure in the knowledge that he had had every right to do so. After all, she was simply a nameless pirate—one who had committed the sin of thinking herself worthy of him, either as friend or foe. He had done this to the woman who should have been his empress….

….the woman who had, despite it all, loved him. Callisto had said as much. She had loved him, just as he had, in a way….

...loved her? _Did_ he love her? Yes, he realized dimly and too late, yes, perhaps he had. For all that his arrogance had blinded him to it, he loved her.

Arrogance. That was the connection. Like the puzzle box, once he had the secret, everything else fell into place. It had been the same with that little bard, he saw now, saw clearly. She had freed him, had guarded him, protected him, killed for him—_I killed for you!_ she had shouted at him in Salmoneus's encampment. _I killed for you!_ She had aided him almost beyond reason, and it had never even occurred to him that she might behave otherwise. After all, it was no more than his due. She had been kind, and at every step of the way, he had repaid her kindness with cruelty, theft, and scorn. It was no wonder that she had abandoned him, he realized as he thought back over the abuse he had showered on her; the only wonder was that she had not done so long before.

He could see now, see clearly. Both fates could have been averted. If he had not betrayed Xena, then Rome would still stand; if he had returned to the bard the slightest fraction of the compassion she had shown him, then he would not be here now.

He had been blinded by arrogance. That was the lesson he had to learn. Not a difficult lesson, but one that had cost him literally everything he had—his destiny, his city, even his legs. It had cost him the woman he had, after a fashion, loved, and at this night's dawn, it would cost him his life. _And not just my life,_ he realized dimly—how many had died when Rome burned? The sudden realization staggered him, on top of everything else; he shrank from it instinctively.

Yes, a costly lesson indeed, and the hell of it was, he had come to understand it only now, when it was far too late to be of use. There was nothing he could do. Not to avert his fate, or even to make restitution. Rome had burned. Xena was dead. Gabrielle had left him, and he had no hope of escape. He could not even pray to the gods he had long since stopped believing in.

He closed his eyes, and lowered his head to his knees.

_Xena,_ he thought, then, _Gabrielle. Forgive._

Alone on the last night of his life, Caesar waited for the end.

* * *

The guards came for him at the first light of dawn.

He had slept a little that night, fallen into a half-dozing state which at least allowed him some escape from the pain of his injuries. He had dreamed, but not clearly, of things past and dead; Pompey had been there, mocking him, and Crassus, both of them bearing the marks of their deaths. That young Roman boy that Gabrielle had done for had looked at him sorrowfully, he remembered; and at his back there were a crowd of others—he did not recognize them, but he knew that they were Romans all, men and women and children that had died when the city burned. The walls of Rome rose behind them, pale and translucent, and over it all, for just a moment, he might have seen a flash of blue eyes framed by long dark hair, a warm and brilliant smile. Whatever he had dreamed was gone when he heard the rattle of the bolts to his cell.

They had to lift him to his feet; he could not stand on his own. A tingling had begun to return to his left arm, prickles in his hand and the tips of his fingers that felt as if they would rise to pain later. He knew he would not live long enough for that to happen. His cracked rib bit into his side at each breath. They took him, one gripping either arm, and led him out, through a warren of passages, up flights of stairs, through a pair of doors that opened to the outside.

He was not afraid. He was meeting the end he had long dreaded—being burned to death on Xena's funeral pyre—but somehow he did not feel it. If anything, he felt only a sense of regret that he had found his answer too late, at such great cost. Perhaps in the afterlife he would meet Xena again, and tell her what he had learned. He wondered what she would say.

Callisto had set up Xena's pyre some distance from the camp, on a barren space of ground to the east of the fortress, to one side of the main eastern road. Stakes and skulls and piles of ashes lined both sides of the highway for as far as he could see down it; apparently, Xena would be added to the other examples Callisto had set here, for a lesson to the travelers to the fortress. The first rays of the sun washed the flat land with brilliant gold. His legs were aching, but not as badly as the rest of him; he squinted against the rays of morning.

Xena's sarcophagus was there, he saw, resting on a huge pile of fuel—kindling, tinder and sticks, larger logs lying at crossed angles to each other. The gilding on the sarcophagus seemed to glow in the light of the morning sun. Callisto was standing by the pyre, a bright look of anticipation on her face, as the soldiers brought him to the edge of the ground. Her blonde hair shone in the sun; she looked even more ethereally beautiful than she had last night. He felt no fear of her, despite how she had hurt him; he seemed to have passed to a place beyond fear.

"Are you ready?" she called to him eagerly; she was smiling as if she were a child promised a treat. She winked at him and turned away to discuss something with a small group of men beside her. After a moment she cried, "_What?"_

"G-Gabrielle, the—the bard, my lady," the man said, pale and stammering with fear. "She—my lady, she is not in the dungeon. She and the King of Thieves, we—"

"_Ohhh…"_ The Bright Warrior stamped her foot petulantly, her face screwed up in an expression of dismay. "Well, _that's_ no fun!" She put her hands on her hips. "Who were the guards on the gate last night?"

"Lares, Paranthius and Daron."

"Are they dead yet?"

"Yes, my Queen—I killed them personally."

"Well, at least that's settled." She frowned in thought, stroking her chin with one delicate hand. "Theodorus!"

Theodorus stepped forward. "No worries, my lady," he said, grinning. "They can't have gotten too far. We have men looking along the main road. I'm sure we'll find them."

"Well…it's a shame they're going to miss it, but the show must go on. Isn't that right?" she asked with another wink in his direction. "We might as well get started." She glanced over to where the guards held him again and gave that sharp smile. "Apply the torch!" she called.

Torches were brought, and bright tongues of fire began to lick at the pile of wood and kindling. The wood caught rapidly, and within moments it seemed as if the pyre was ablaze, roaring and crackling with light. Caesar watched as the flames rose into the sky, flickering around Xena's sarcophagus; her beautiful, serene smile shimmered through the smoke.

Callisto watched too, he saw, her face as solemn as a child's; the sparks of the flames glistened deep in her large brown eyes. "First, the horse," she commanded. "Bring Argo forward!"

Argo was being brought up, he saw now; she had been held off to the side. Now one of Callisto's soldiers brought her forward; she came docilely, her ears out to either side, as calmly as if she were being turned out to graze. Caesar saw that she was caparisoned with all her gear, and spared a brief moment to wonder if she knew what was in store for her. _Perhaps she doesn't care,_ he mused. After all, she too might join Xena on the other side.

"Cut her throat first," Callisto was ordering her men. "After she's dead, toss her body on the pyre."

_Goodbye, Argo, _he thought to himself. He had known Argo for years, and had never wished this fate for her. At least it would be over soon. He wondered if he would see her on the other side as well.

One of Callisto's soldiers was moving toward Argo with drawn sword, Caesar saw now, the steel blade flashing in the early morning sunshine. He watched the soldier approach the horse, trying to prepare himself for the brightness of blood spread over the blade. Horses had a lot of blood; that he knew. Argo was growing skittish, he saw, sidestepping and tossing her head.

"Hold her still!" the soldier complained to the man at her head. Argo whickered and tossed her crest right up, nearly yanking the reins out of his grasp. The soldier cursed, and hauled her back down again.

As he watched, awaiting his turn to be thrown on the pyre, one of the horse's dark eyes found him. She seemed to be looking right at him. He held her gaze, unable to look away. For what seemed like a timeless moment, Argo stared at him…..

"_Look out, she's loose!"_

With a ringing scream, the mare reared, swinging her head and pulling herself free of the handler. As she came down, Argo smashed both her hooves down on the man's head and he dropped like a stone. She whirled and kicked the man holding the drawn sword in the chest, sending him flying several feet away to collapse to the ground.

Alarmed shouts were rising into the early morning air. More guards were rushing toward Argo, weapons drawn; the horse was rearing, bucking, lashing out with her hooves and teeth. Soldiers went flying in all directions. No one could so much as touch her. Caesar had known her for many years and had never seen her fight like this before; he watched, fascinated.

"_Stop her! Stop her!"_ Callisto was shrieking furiously. He felt the men on either side him drop his arms, as they ran forward to join the brawl around Xena's horse. If his legs had been better, that might have been his chance to escape; as it was, there was nothing he could do. He watched as they ran forward to engage the furious Argo; her eyes showed white all the way around and her squeals of rage rang in the air. Argo kicked the first guard in the chest with both her hind hooves at once, and there was a loud splintering _crack_; the second one fell as Argo struck him full on the head with her hooves. Callisto gave a shriek of rage.

"_You idiots!"_ she screamed. _"Can't you handle a simple horse?"_ As he tore his eyes from the sight of Argo and looked over at Callisto, he saw her snatch Xena's chakram from her waist. With an ear-splitting shriek, she threw it at Argo with all her strength. Argo pivoted on her front feet and lashed out with her back hooves, catching the flashing disk in midair; there was a loud _clang_ as the chakram deflected off her horseshoes and went whirring through the air to thwack harmlessly into a pole nearby. More men were running to join the fray as he watched. _It's almost a shame_, he thought; as valiantly as Argo fought, it was a foregone conclusion that she would fall….

But she did not.

As more men came to surround her, Argo gave a ringing, triumphant scream. She turned, lashed out, clearing some space behind her and sending soldiers flying, then backed up. She advanced three paces; her haunches bulged, and as he watched in wonder, she leapt.

But leap was scarcely the right word; it conveyed nothing of the ease and power of the movement. It seemed more as if Argo simply pushed off from the ground, into a jump that carried her not into but actually _over_ the heads of the men surrounding her. He had never _seen_ a horse make such a leap before, and it was clear that Callisto's men hadn't either; their faces paled as her shadow passed over them, and more than one of them cowered, covering their heads with their hands. Argo seemed to soar over them; her forehooves struck the ground in a spray of dirt and she kicked out with her back legs, knocking two or three more of Callisto's men to the ground, then launched herself immediately into a gallop. Straight toward him.

Argo was coming toward him.

His eyes found Callisto; she had left off shrieking and was staring at the chaos before her, her mouth open and eyes gleaming in what looked like fascination. She met his gaze, and he could have sworn he saw delight in those brown eyes. There was no time to think, or to contemplate what was happening; as Argo skidded to a plunging halt in front of him, shaking her mane and trumpeting defiance, he moved. The pain in his battered, damaged body seemed miles away. He would never afterwards be able to figure out how he did it, but he reached up, grabbed her saddle horn, raised one foot to the stirrup, and pulled himself up into Argo's saddle.

No sooner had he settled himself than, as if she had been waiting for it, Argo sprang into a gallop.

He bent low over her neck to shield himself from the wind, though her mane lashed his face. He caught brief glimpses, fragments of images—Callisto's men, running helplessly after Argo on foot or racing to their own horses to give pursuit; Callisto, with her head back, laughing in manic glee; Theodorus shouting orders that nobody heeded. He saw Xena's funeral pyre; the flames had reached her sarcophagus now, and were blackening and charring the gilded wood, but the serene smile on her carved lips was the same, as if she knew a secret. He could not help but think that smile was for him.

"_After them! After them!"_ Theodorus was bellowing furiously while Callisto's wild laughter rang over the fray. Several men had actually managed to mount their horses and were beginning to give chase. As they flashed past the pole in which Xena's chakram was embedded, some instinct made him put out his hand; there was a sharp pain, but he snatched it out of the wood easily enough. Almost the moment it was in his hand, Argo stretched out and began to run.

Gabrielle had never asked it of her, but he had seen her run like this before, for Xena. He had never thought to experience it himself. Argo moved as smoothly and easily as if she were on water, and yet the world flashed by on both sides of him in a blur. This was not running, this was almost _flying_; it was like riding the wind. She was running flat out and even increasing speed, but her strides were effortless. As they sailed beyond the boundaries of the encampment, leaving the stronghold farther and farther behind, his heart lifted; Callisto's horsemen would never be able to catch them now. Only Callisto on her mare Charybdis, and Callisto had not given chase. _What a horse you are,_ he thought. _Carry me, Argo—carry me!_

She carried him; on the wings of the wind, she carried him; chasing the dawn, she carried him, and the road to the east opened up beneath her hooves like something out of a dream. He sat up against her strides, his eyes stinging from the streaming wind that snatched the breath from his throat, and squinted against the intense light. Directly ahead of them, as they swept down the clear and open road away from the darkness behind, shone the rising sun.

* * *

The sun had climbed halfway up the sky by the time Argo slowed to a trot; she dropped her pace further, to a walk, and finally came to a halt underneath the shade of a grove of apple trees. Despite her run, she was neither winded, nor lathered; she seemed as fit and as fresh as if she had come from a relaxing day in the meadow. He rubbed her crest gently. "You think we're far enough away they won't find us?" he murmured. "You're probably right." He himself had no idea where they were, or how far they had come.

The pains that had seemed miles away were returning; his jaw hurt, his side was flaming agony, and his left arm was alight with fiery needles that prickled over its entire surface. Somehow, despite the pain, he felt good—better than he had in a long, long time. He had made no attempt to guide Argo during her run, but now, tentatively, he touched his heels to her sides; without too much trouble, he managed to direct her over to a large boulder, directly underneath one of the trees. Moving slowly and carefully, and using the boulder as a step, he managed to dismount without falling flat on his face in the dirt. He looked at her.

"Why did you save me?" he wondered aloud. "You don't even like me."

Argo's ears went lateral; her only reply was a whicker. She nuzzled him briefly.

The pain in his right hand reminded him that he still held Xena's chakram; he examined it now. He had apparently cut himself with it when he had snatched it out of the post, he saw; blood had trickled down his arm and dried in streaks. He awkwardly hooked the chakram over Argo's saddle horn. It was hard to open her saddlebags with one injured hand and one hand that was barely functional, but somehow he managed it. Bandaging his hand was more difficult, but he was eventually able to accomplish that too.

Argo was nuzzling at some apples hanging from the lower boughs; she liked them, he remembered. He plucked an apple from a low-hanging branch, heavy with fruit. While looking through Argo's saddlebags, he had come across Gabrielle's little belt knife; now he retrieved it. Moving unevenly, with jerky, awkward steps, he made his way over to the boulder he had used as a mounting block, and half-sat, half-fell down. With the little belt knife, he cut into the apple, dividing it into slices. He could not eat—his jaw hurt too much—but he offered a piece to Argo; the mare took it from him, nibbling on it with evident enjoyment.

"So," he asked her, "where do we go now?"

Argo had no answer.

* * *

"_Yet he smiled, for he saw that the world was a world for him, though many discovered it to be made of oaths and walking sticks. He had rid himself of the red sickness of battle. The sultry nightmare was in the past. He had been an animal blistered and sweating in the heat and pain of war. He turned now with a lover's thirst to images of tranquil skies, fresh meadows, cool brooks—an existence of soft and eternal peace._

"_Over the river a golden ray of sun came through the leaden rain clouds."_

—Stephen Crane, _The Red Badge of Courage. _

_**The End.**_


End file.
